Crusader (A Novel of WWII Tank Warfare)

by Jack Murray

  Blair reminded Danny of Lieutenant Turner. Young, public school and seemingly capable. Captain Arnold came past to introduce himself.

  ‘Don’t get up,’ were the first words he said to them. ‘For those of you that don’t know me, my name is Arnold. Hello Gray. Bully, Fitz, glad to see you’re still with us. Lieutenant Blair will fill the rest of you in on what we’re doing. This is our chance to give the Axis something to think about in places where he’s least expecting it. Make no mistake, it will be hard work. We’ve lost many men on these operations in the last year, but we’ve created a lot of disruption to the enemy.’

  Arnold moved on to the next group drinking tea. After he’d left, Buller signalled to Danny that he would give him rapid overview of the two pounder. Gray joined them over at the gun.

  ‘You fired one of these before?’ asked Gray.

  ‘Wait’ll you hear this, sarge,’ said Buller.

  Danny’s explained his introduction to the gun had come from Brigadier Campbell. Gray whistled and smiled.

  ‘Well, he’s an artillery man so he would know. I’ll leave Bully to give you a quick tour now. You won’t find much difference as a loader. Just get to grips with unloading and loading. Every second counts.’

  ‘Yes, sarge,’ grinned Danny. Sergeant Gray left the big Liverpudlian in charge of giving Danny a brief tour of the two pounder gun. Any demonstration would have to wait until they’d stopped and, most probably, were in action.

  -

  The column headed off after a few more minutes towards the shimmering haze on the horizon. Vehicle after vehicle rolled over the rocks, the carpeted ridges, the sun-burned sand and half-buried brush. Each mile took Danny away from the enemy and closer to his next fight.

  He looked around at the men with him. They’d all killed and seen killing. He was now like them. At the very least he’d killed in yesterday’s engagement. A vague thought the previous evening was now at the forefront of his mind.

  He felt no remorse.

  The death of Phil Lawrence had given birth only to one desire in his mind. To kill the enemy. The attack on the airfield while he manned the gun brought forth another overwhelming desire that had nothing to do with revenge.

  Survival replaced all other thoughts now. Yesterday, he’d faced death time and time again. By rights he should have died like Reed, like Holmes, like Phil. Perhaps even Arthur, now. Yet here he sat, alive but wearied beyond imagining; sentient yet stripped of sorrow; impotent yet able to kill.

  He removed from his pocket a letter. The paper had crinkled, and greased fingerprints decorated the edges like a black lipstick. The fragrance had long since evaporated. Twenty-four hours had passed since he’d last gazed at her writing. This was the longest he’d gone without reading it. Tears stung his eyes. For fear that the others would see him he turned his head towards the empty wasteland around him. He held onto the letter for a few minutes then folded it up and put it back in his pocket.

  The realisation of what it meant to him was all too clear. The letter not only connected him to her, it connected him to a part of his better self. A self that would not barter his soul to the brutality that he would encounter as well as inflict.

  Whatever forfeit this war demanded from him he would not lose this.

  30

  Sciaf Sciuf, twenty-five kilometres south east of Sidi Rezegh, Libya, November 23rd, 1941

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Fischer. He stared at the red-rimmed eyes of Manfred and, surprisingly, seemed concerned.

  Manfred nodded absently. It was five in the morning and they’d managed a few hours of sleep following the capture of the British brigade headquarters. A thick layer of fog clung to the ground. It added a dreamlike quality to the atmosphere in the camp.

  Manfred looked at Fischer and asked, ‘Do you know what day it is?’

  Fischer was as exhausted as Manfred and the mental arithmetic took a few moments. Finally, he offered an uncertain answer.

  ‘Sunday?’

  ‘Yes, Sunday. It’s Totensonntag (Sunday of the Dead).’

  This seemed to surprise Fischer. Manfred wasn’t sure if this was because he was not religious or if it was for the more plausible reason that he’d completely lost track of time. The months of ennui, of waiting for something to happen had been followed by ceaseless days of struggle against the twin enemies they faced: the allies and the desert.

  ‘I hadn’t realised,’ replied Fischer. ‘Do you pray, Manfred?’

  It was Manfred’s turn to be surprised. The answer was ‘no’ and had been ‘no’ since his early teens. Even when he was walking away from the South Africans half expecting to be shot in the back, he hadn’t prayed. Even when he’d heard of the death of his mother, it hadn’t occurred to him to pray for her soul. Was this because he’d become so inured to death or simply because he no longer cared for his mother? The tears were stinging his eyes now.

  ‘My mother died two months ago,’ said Manfred absently. A moment later he felt Fischer’s hand tap his elbow.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Manfred shook his head. He felt guilty now and wanted to give Fischer a reason not to think of this anymore.

  ‘She wasn’t well. It was a release,’ he lied. Guilt and shame welled up within him. It felt as if he was disowning his mother. He wanted to say something else. Instead, he pointed behind Fischer. Major Fenski, accompanied by Captain Kummel, was walking along the ranks of the tank crews. They stopped every so often to chat to some men before continuing their inspection.

  The smile on Fenski’s face was contagious. And no wonder. He was fresh from the previous evening’s triumph. Even Manfred felt a surge of confidence through his body waking up his dulled senses.

  ‘Are you ready, boys?’ asked Fenski as he arrived at Manfred’s tank.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ grinned Lieutenant Peters, climbing down from the tank to greet their battalion commander.

  ‘Good. We have a big day ahead of us,’ said the major before swiftly moving on to the next tank.

  Peters looked at his tank crew and said, ‘Hurry.’

  Manfred glanced up to the sky and offered a brief silent prayer to his mother. Then he and Fischer began rolling up their bedding to the sound of engines, then men, coughing into life and laughter.

  -

  The tank rumbled forward. Much to the evident annoyance of Fischer, Manfred was asked by Peters to sit at the top while he went down to the wireless. He wanted to listen and respond to the instructions issuing from Fenski. Although he and Fischer were clearly much closer now, it still gave him a lift to get one over the Bavarian. Peters stayed with Fischer for some minutes giving Manfred the opportunity to absorb what he was seeing. It was quite a sight.

  Manfred’s battalion was at the head of a fearsome phalanx of destructive intent. Around thirty heavy panzers led while a column of tall lorries, protected on their flanks by light tanks and armoured cars, followed behind. They were heading in a south west direction towards Bir el Gubi to make contact with the Italians.

  After a few minutes Manfred reluctantly had to surrender his position in the cupola to Lieutenant Peters. Manfred returned to his position in the turret and glanced at Fischer. The Bavarian had a rueful grin on his face. Peters began to explain more of the plan on the tank radio.

  ‘We’re marching to retake the Sidi Rezegh airfield from the allies. In this we will be helped by the Ariete and Trieste divisions of the Italian Motorised Corps. We will advance north with them.’

  Peters broke off for a moment to demonstrate using his hands what would happen. Putting his left palm flat he clenched his right hand into a fist.

  ‘We are the hammer. To the north of the airfield is the light infantry and Battlegroup Knabe. They are the anvil. In the middle are the Allies occupying Sidi Rezegh. We will strike and destroy them.’

  Peters smacked his fist against his palm. It was abundantly clear that intense fighting lay ahead for all of them. At that moment, though, the prospect held no fear for Manfred
. Instead, he felt emboldened by his time sitting outside the turret looking at one half of the force that would take on the Allies in the late afternoon.

  Following his outline of the plan, Peters returned to his position in the cupola. Manfred felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Werner.

  ‘What do you think?’

  Manfred wasn’t sure what the right answer was to the grizzled veteran. He felt the corporal’s eyes boring into his mind. He answered truthfully, ‘I don’t know. I’ll just keep loading until you tell me to stop.’

  Werner laughed and clapped him on the back.

  ‘You’ll do.’

  -

  It was eight o’clock in the morning when the radio crackled. Manfred immediately put his eyes to the periscope. Directly ahead, in the lead tank, was the battalion commander Major Fenski. In front of Fenski, cresting the brow of a hill were a couple of Axis light armoured reconnaissance vehicles driving at high speed towards the column. They drew up to Fenski’s tank.

  Fenski halted the column and jumped out to consult with the officer from the reconnaissance vehicles. The officer was pointing excitedly in the direction of the rise. Fenski jumped back up into his vehicle and called for the march to continue.

  ‘Get ready,’ said Werner to Manfred. Peters came on the radio with a similar instruction.

  Manfred opened the breech and took a cartridge from the rack in readiness to load. All at once he felt a nervousness that had been singularly missing all morning. The tank rolled forward. Manfred put his eyes to the periscope and gazed straight ahead. Just at that moment three armoured scout cars appeared. The flags on the antennae were British. Werner spoke first. There was wry amusement in his voice.

  ‘I wonder what they’re thinking now?’

  Manfred smiled. Imagine driving over the crest of a hill only to be confronted by the greatest fighting machine on the planet? He wondered what the conversation would be among the British when they saw what they saw.

  Peters shouted into his microphone, ‘Scout cars, twelve o’clock. One thousand yards, HE grenade. Free fire.’

  Werner fired.

  ‘Damn,’ said the gunner. The round had overshot the target. Seconds later the scout cars disappeared over the hill all in one piece. ‘You got the distance wrong, sir,’ shouted Werner into his microphone.

  ‘You missed, not me,’ pointed out Peters. ‘My pet poodle could have hit them from here.’

  ‘Can we get him to mark the distances in future, then?’ responded Werner before gleefully switching off his mic as a string of obscenities erupting good-humouredly from the turret.

  Manfred laughed but he could feel the tank beginning to accelerate as Lang pressed his foot down on the accelerator. Already Major Fenski was racing ahead and over the crest of the hill. The engine whined as the tank trundled up the hill. Seconds later, they had reached the ridge and were now flying downhill. Manfred’s mouth dropped open at what he saw.

  -

  Around two kilometres away was a camp consisting of dozens of light yellow soft-sided supply trucks. They were stationary like cows innocently grazing in a field.

  Manfred was transfixed by the sight of the Tommies transfixed by their arrival. He saw the kettles boiling on top of the campfires, he saw the cups in their hands; he saw the breakfast rolls fall to the ground as the full weight of comprehension dawned that they were drinking tea while the might of the Afrika Korps descended on them like a malevolent fog. Manfred could barely supress his laughter. It all seemed so easy.

  Some of the Tommies had woken up though. Fenski’s tank was within a half a kilometre of them when the echelon erupted into life. Vehicles began to tear off in different directions.

  ‘Don’t fire yet,’ ordered Peters.

  The air was already singing with gunfire. Dust fountains erupted in front of the tank and a percussive rhythm of bullets echoed around the interior of the tank. An utterly futile gesture thought Manfred.

  A nod from Werner and the breech block clanged as the first shell went in. The firing started. Manfred was aware of explosions happening all around him but by now he was too busy loading cartridges into the cannon. Werner was firing at the escaping vehicles counting off his hits and ignoring his misses.

  A louder clang on the armour of the tank suggested heavier weapons were now engaging them.

  ‘What’s that?’ shouted Werner.

  Peters responded, ‘Tanks to our left. They’re too far away to do us much damage.’

  ‘Do you want me to get closer?’ asked Lang.

  ‘No,’ ordered Peters, ‘Maintain course.’

  The tank was now nearing the middle of what had once been the British artillery park. Manfred risked a swift glance through his periscope. Smoke obscured his view. Burning vehicles lay strung out everywhere that was visible.

  ‘Lang, faster,’ shouted Peters urgently. ‘Cramer and Fenski are alone in the middle. We need to get near them to support.’

  Manfred looked ahead and saw the two tanks fifty metres ahead. Behind them and the burning vehicles was the cloud of dust kicked up by the British vehicles disappearing into the distance. Manfred felt an overwhelming sense of elation. Something that transcended relief. Conviction. The feeling of vulnerability that had taken root after the loss of Overath and Kastner was dissolving rapidly in the face of a second triumph in the space of twelve hours. The sense of elation lasted barely a minute.

  ‘Sir,’ shouted Fischer, ‘Major Fenski’s been hit.’

  All at once the atmosphere inside the tank changed to shock. Manfred felt like he’d received a blow to the stomach. How could this happen? It had been a rout. Like going on a hunt.

  ‘Can you confirm this, Fischer?’ said Peters. His face betrayed the concern he felt for a man he’d served under since their arrival in North Africa. Werner sat in mute disbelief. Silence fell on the tank.

  Fischer listened intently on the wireless. The shooting outside was dying down. The remnants of the British echelon had been scattered across the desert. Finally, Fischer turned towards everyone. Peters and Werner ducked their heads down into the hull.

  Fischer nodded slowly.

  ‘Yes, sir. It’s confirmed. The major is dead. Lieutenant Foders also.’

  Manfred looked at his watch. It was not yet nine o’clock. Totensonntag had begun. It had claimed its first lives.

  Many more would fall that day.

  31

  South east of Sidi Rezegh Airfield, Libya, November 23rd, 1941

  It was around midday when the regiment halted to rearm, refuel and reorganise following the death of the battalion commander, Major Fenski. Manfred could see the regiment commander, Hans Cramer standing with the other senior officers and troop leaders in a conference.

  ‘Who will take over?’ asked Manfred to no one in particular.

  ‘Kummel,’ said Werner with complete certainty. ‘He’s good.’

  Manfred nodded. Kummel was known as the ‘Lion of Capuzzo’ following his heroism during the summer. His tank had been decorated by the soldiers with a roaring lion. Manfred looked at the dark-haired captain with a Roman nose. He was moving towards them accompanied by his lieutenants. Work on the tanks stopped for a few moments when Kummel arrived.

  ‘I’ve been asked by Lieutenant-Colonel Cramer to take over from Major Fenski as commander of the First Battalion. I would like us all to pay our respects for a few moments to our fallen comrade.’

  Silence fell on the First Battalion. Manfred glanced around him. Men were openly weeping. Was this really for the loss of Fenski or out of fear for what lay ahead? Somewhere in the distance the Second Battalion was working to re-equip their tanks. Manfred wondered how Gerhardt was. Would he be feeling the same apprehension? In the distance Manfred could hear artillery fire. Then Kummel continued.

  ‘Our orders from General Neumann-Silkov are clear. The enemy must be defeated decisively today. We believe the enemy lines will be quite deep. The attack will be on a wide front. The First Battalion will have the honou
r of leading this attack. The second line will be composed of the infantry regiments. Because of the likely depth of the enemy positions, they will stay in their vehicles until we have breached the front line.’

  A sadness crept into the eyes of the captain and he looked around at the men of his battalion. He knew many of them would die over the course of the day.

  ‘Expect the enemy to be resolute. We must be stronger. Expect them to be brave. We shall be lions. They will fight to the last man. We shall make them. And remember, we do not go into battle alone. We will be accompanied by the spirits of our fallen comrades, by our fathers who were denied victory in the last War, and by the hopes of our Fatherland.’

  -

  At 1445 hours the advance of over one hundred Panzer tanks began to the sound of artillery from both sides shelling one another. Manfred glanced at Werner. His were darting everywhere with every sound from the outside. This did little to quell the pounding of Manfred’s heart. Fischer’s body was tensed over the wireless like a cat about to pounce. Peters was quiet. There was nothing more to say. What happened now would owe as much to fate as fortitude.

  The thunder of explosions grew louder. Manfred began to sense the ground was trembling for reasons not just to do with the motion of the tank. This was different from anything he’d experienced before. The intensity of the bombardment made the air crackle like a separate presence in the tank.

  Peters was now yelling into the mic. Manfred immediately snapped the breech open and loaded the first round. Werner shot Manfred a look and winked. This made Manfred grin. Fear evaporated at that moment. Manfred’s mind, body and emotions coalesced into the act of performing a single task: loading shells.

  Billowing black smoke rolled across the desert obscuring Manfred’s occasional glances through the periscope. Momentarily, light reappeared to reveal they were now almost amongst the enemy. Debris fell like rain. Manfred saw a small flag waving to the side of them. It seemed familiar. Then it came to him. These were South Africans. Manfred remembered the men who had briefly taken them prisoner. Hard men. He cast aside any more thoughts and returned to loading.