by Unknown
Along with the other pieces, shirts impermeable to air, a brown tie, etc., we acknowledged receipt of our equipment and returned to the barracks to stage a fashion show.
Wounded men from North Africa, waiting there for ting" told us how they, like many others, had carried on a lively trade with the Italians in order to exchange at least some of their equipment for the more appropriate Italian uniforms.
They told us also of tht first actions in the desert, of Rommel's rapid advance, by which he had surprised the British, and of the conditions of desert warfare, such as the heat, the sandstorms, and the cold nights." Finally, it was time to go. We were given our movement orders, and on I April 1942 we boarded the Berlin-Rome express coach, with a sleeping compartment of our own. To the clatter of the wheels, we both thoughtback to our return from Russia in snow and ice. How quickly things changed!
A night-in Rome, which seemed quite unaware of the war. From the German liaison officer we learned that we were to go on to Brindisi by rail and from there, fly in a supply plane via Crete to Dema, which lay iq Cyrenaica.
What would await us? We were highly expectant, almost eager for adventure.
North Africa, 1942: Rommel" the Desert Fox From Brindisi, we flew to Crete, the island on which our paratroops had descended the year before, among them, Max Schmeling, the idol of German boxing. We relished the warmth of spring.
Then, on the morning of 8 April 1942, we took off for North Africa in our Junkers 52, known affectionately as
“Auntie Ju.” I was allowed to sit in the cockpit.
“We have to fly low over the sea,” the pilot told me. “In spite of our air superiority, there are always a few Spitfires or Hurricanes buzzing about the Mediterranean. They come from Malta, which for some reason, quite beyond me, has not been attacked and occupied by now.” At that moment, I was not thinking of the war or of what might lie in store for me. I was too taken up with the idea of getting to know a new continent.
Suddenly the machine was pulled higher.
“We were lucky,” laughed the pilot. “We shall soon be landing in Dema.” The outlines of Africa emerged before us: the narrow coastal strip cultivated by the Italians, with its date palms, olive groves, the whitewashed houses of the colonists, and the long, asphalt ribbon of the Via Balbia. Behind it shimmered the desert.
“That's the stony desert,” the pilot informed me, “about 200 to 300 kilometers deep, before the start of the Sahara proper, with its huge white dunes. These level plains, broken frequently by rocks and hills of gravel, have been the scene of the fighting for the past year or so.” I had read books about the desert and the Bedouins, those nomadic people who, for more than 2,500 years, had wandered across the deserts of Arabia and Libya, living according to their own laws and with no form of state. Already, I thought I could feel something of the longing that is said to strike all who once set foot in the desert. I hoped I would find time to savor this new environment and its people.
Leaving a huge cloud of dust behind her, Auntie Ju landed North Africa, 1942: Rommel, the Desert Fox 93 gently on the sandy runway. The midday heat took us aback even at that time of year. What a contrast to the icy snowstorms of Russia.
“I'm Lance-Corporal Manthey,” a man in a faded uniform introduced himself
“Major von Luck, I presume?” His pure, Berlin accent was music in my ears and took me back to my years in Potsdam. “I've come to pick you up. They're expecting you.” Beck and I felt like greenhorns in our new, brown, tropical outfits. We stowed our gear. “Thanks for collecting us, Manthey, but what do we want with our thick coats in this heat?”
“You'll need them all right. It's bloody cold at night. I'll get you something Italian as uniform; they know what's practical do wn here.” The windshield of the jeep was folded flat and covered over to prevent reflections from the sun.
“I'm to take you to Ronnnel first, before we go to division and our battalion.” Everyone there spoke only of “Rommel,” not of the General, so popular was he with his men; he was one of them.
During the journey, Manthey told us of the battles of the past year, as he had experienced them. He spoke of the “father” of the reconnaissance battalion, Lieutenant-Colonel Freiherr von Wechmar, his popularity, his successes, and of how proud von Wechmar was to have been the first to land on African soil in 1941. “Our battalion is the apple of Rommel's eye,” he added proudly. It occurred to me that I wasn't going to find things easy.
We left Dema in an easterly direction. Rommel's HQ must lie somewhere among the olive groves.
“One of us must look out for aircraft. They usually come from behind.” Beck took this on.
Suddenly, we turned off the road. No path, no track was to be seen. Tire marks were always removed at once-as camouflage.
Suddenly, we stopped. Rommel's HQ. All the vehicles were well dispersed and camouflaged. In the middle, stood a monster of a truck.
“That's the”Mammoth.“ We took it from the British and converted it into Rommel's command car.” ' I spotted some eight-wheeled scout cars. This was the new, fast, reconnaissance vehicle, which we hadn't had yet in Russia.
I was rather keyed up. After all, I hadn't seen Rommel since the French campaign in 1940. An orderly officer took me to him.
He had a deep suntan covering his sharp features, giving him a 94 PANZER COMMANDER fully healthy look. He was at the peak of his career, clearly enjoying his world-wide reputation. He was in a high mood and clearly glad to see me.
“I am reporting on transfer to the Afrika Korps, Colonel-General,” I said.
“Glad you're here,” he replied. “I've waited long enough. Un fortunately, I've had to send Wechmar to Germany, he became sick. You are taking over my pet battalion, let it be a credit to you.” Then, typically, he came straight to the point, “You've come at just the right moment. I'm preparing a new offensive to forestall the British. Your battalion will play an important part in it. My chief of staff, Gause, will brief you. Then report to your division. How's my old 7th Panzer Division, was it bad in Russia?” I gave him a brief account, and was dismissed. It was the start of a new phase.
General Gause, Rommel's chief of staff, with whom I would have much to do, gave me a summary of the situation. He then added, “Rommel is very disappointed at the indifference of the upper leadership. Hitler and the High Command see North Africa as a 'secondary' theater of war. For the British, however, it is decisive. In addition, he is exasperated by the slack conduct of the sea-war by the Italians. In March, for instance, instead of the requested 60,000 tons of materiel, only 18,000 arrived.” In Rommel's view, the chance of victory in Africa had already been missed. Despite heavy losses through our U-boat campaign and despite a 12,000-mile-long sea route, sufficient supplies for the British were getting through to the front.
That didn't sound very encouraging. Nevertheless, Rommel seemed to be set on turning the tables, once again, in his favor. He hoped to take Tobruk by an unexpected thrust and be able to advance far into Egypt, provided he could forestall the British.
I took my leave.
“Manthey, we've got to go to division now (it was the 21st Panzer Division) and then on to the battalion.”
“Very well, Major. You seem to be well in with Rommel for him to greet you personally,” said Manthey.
I told him a few things about Rommel.
“Well, yes,” he said, "it certainly is unusual to bring someone here from Russia. Our commander, von Wechmar, was a great guy.
His son Ruediger has also been with us now for a couple of weeks, as a young lieutenant. That's tradition. You'll be all right, Major." North Africa, 1942: Rommel, the Desert Fox 95 Divisional HQ was well camouflaged under palms and olive trees.
General von Bismarck greeted me in friendly fashion. He had been my commander in East Prussia in 1930, at the start of my military career. Like so many who were serving in the desert, he looked emaciated. The pitiless heat by day, the icy cold at night, the sandstorms, the millions of flies, and
the hard battles had left their mark.
“A hearty welcome to you, Luck, we haven't seen each other for twelve years. You're entering upon a fine inheritance. Wechmar and his battalion have done great things and are Rommel's favorite unit. After your service in Russia, you've got some adapting to do. Familiarize yourself with conditions as quickly as you can. We shall probably be opening a decisive offensive before long. Best of luck!” The general-staff officer briefed me on the situation. The task of the 3rd Panzer Reconnaissance Battalion was to reconnoiter in the far south, prevent or report any outflanking move by the enemy, and form the spearhead in any attack.
“The British, meanwhile, have strongly fortified their Gazala position,” he continued. "There is a vast minefield with about 500,000 mines stretching from the coast to Bir Hacheim, a water hole south of Tobruk, originally developed by the Italians. Bir Hacheim is held by French troops under General Koenig. Behind this defensive barrier, the British are preparing to go on the offensive as soon as they can bring up enough materiel. And that, apparently, is what Rommel means to forestall.
“So we've got to be extremely vigilant, to ensure that the British don't attack around the south of Bir Hacheim deep in our flank. To look out for that and to prevent it is your job, Luck, among other things.” We left the green of Cyrenaica for the south. Manthey knew the track..Normally one traveled in the desert only by compass, the most important instrument, carried by everyone. Behind us, we raised a huge cloud of dust, which engulfed us whenever we had to brake abruptly.
The desert shimmered. In the far distance“ it was often hard to tell whether the shimmering ”something" was a vehicle or merely a camel's thorn bush.
Suddenly, visible only a few meters in advance, we came to a wadi, one of the many dried-up watercourses, in which my new battalion was lying, well dispersed.
Captain Everth, who had been leading the battalion, and a few other officers were there to greet me: correctly, but with a certain reserve, as it seemed to me. Von Wechmar, the “old man,” would be hard to replace.
We went to the command car, a converted Opel “Blitz” truck. As Everth explained to me, all vehicles were fitted with special oil filters against the dust. Many of the trucks had treadless tires, so that they left no distinctive track in the sand.
Besides the new eightwheeled scout cars, I spotted some tracked motorcycles, 750cc BMWS fitted with two narrow tracks in place of the rear tires. They had been developed especially for the desert.
I asked all the officers to gather together so that I could meet them. Once again, I felt out of place in my new tropical outfit, for all the other officers wore faded uniforms, of which they were very proud, or loose Italian trousers and shirts.
Good old Manthey orpnized something similar for me, too, in the next few days.) “I know your battalion from prewar days, when I was in Potsdam,” I began. "There was a healthy rivalry between our two battalions as to which was the better or the more prominent.
But we also took part together in a number of rallies. It is an honor for me to succeed your beloved and seasoned Commander von Wechmar. I have only my experience from the French campaign and from Russia. I have much to learn here and would be grateful for any help you can give me. I should like to go out on reconnaissance with one of your patrols as soon as possible, to familiarize myself with conditions." I greeted each of the men individually with a handshake; the ice appeared to have been broken.
I learned that on the British side we were usually up against the Royal Dragoons, the II th Hussars, and the dreaded Long Range Desert Group led by the legendary Lieutenant-Colonel David Stirling. The British used the better-armored but slower Humber scout car; we the faster, nimbler eight-wheeler. Meanwhile we “understood” each other. The prevailing atmosphere was one of respect and fair play.
I got used to the Fata Morgana, the mirage, which looked so hopefully like a lake, but which on approach dissolved into nothing. I had also to get accustomed to the ferocious sandstorm which the Italians called the “Ghibli.” It usually lasted for a day, but sometimes for three. One could see it coming. The sky grew dark, the fine sand penetrated every pore and made any movement, let alone any military operation, impossible.
North Africa, 1942: Rommel, the Desert Fox 97 I learned to travel by compass and at the onset of darkness to find my way back to the battalion with mutual light signals.
The reconnaissance trips into the desert held a great fascination for me.
In the weeks that followed, things remained fairly quiet.
Individual British patrols put out feelers to the south. But they were intercepted by our own, wide-ranging patrols. In this, our fast eightwheelers were particularly'valuable.
By the beginning of May 1942, I felt myself “integrated.” I had visited and gotten to know all the companies and had been out with several patrols. I had grown accustomed to the rhythm of daily life. We used to drink half a liter of fluids in the morning, nothing during the day, then the “second half” in the evening. Supplies came up every few days, usually in convoy, to avoid being intercepted by the British.
One even got used to the cold nights. We didn't take off our tropical coats, and thick, nonregulation scarves, until well into the morning when the heat had slowly worked through them.
This was the thermos principle, which we had learned by observing the Bedouins. But the millio-ns of flies were a real torment. Only when one got deeper into the desert did their number diminish.
The heat during the day gradually became unbearable. Everyone sought out a little patch of shade. Some men really did fry eggs on the overheated armor-plating of the tanks. It was no fairy tale; I have done it myself.
The peak period for the massive downpours of rain was over, but when it did rain, the little wadis were filled in minutes with threefoot deep flash floods that carried all before them. I once saw how the truck, with our field kitchen, which had failed to get out of the wadi fast enough, was swept along some hundreds of yards by such a wave.
On our reconnaissance trips, we sometimes came upon a Bedouin family. Only the Bedouins knew where to dig in order to reach the underground, sweet-water lake. In some wadi or other, they would dig out a water hole, guide the water along hastily dug channels, plant their millet, and stay until they could reap the harvest. The corn would be loaded onto camels, the water hole filled in, and a day later, every trace would be gone. The Italians managed to locate a few of these water holes, construct wells and so use them as vital supply points. Bir Hacheim was one such water hole.
I once managed to make contact with a Bedouin family. They seemed to be on the point of departure. The women ran into the 98 PANZER COMMANDER tents at once when we approached. No stranger was permitted to see them. The family sheik came up to us. We indicated that we were Germans.
“We didn't want to disturb you, still less, drive you away. We regret that we are causing you inconvenience here in your ancestral land. Aren't you afraid of the war, of the mines, and so on?” In a gibberish mixture of German, Italian, and a few scraps of Arabic, I tried to make myself understood.
“We always know where you are and move away whenever things get dangerous,” replied the sheik. “We have many places where we can find water and cultivate our millet. We are glad to greet you as Germans. We don't like the Italians, who have occupied our country, any more than the British, who are oppressing our brothers in Egypt and the other Arab countries. One day, you will all have disappeared again and the desert will belong to us again. Allah be with you, we like yoto” It was strange that the Bedouins not only venerated Kaiser Wilhelm II and Bismarck (who were thought by many of them to be still alive), but approved of Hitler's campaign against the Jews because of their own antipathy. We avoided all talk with them about the Jewish question.
Suddenly, on 24 May 1942-I had been in Africa now for seven weeks-we were summoned to division. General von Bismarck briefed his commanders.
"Rommel has decided to attack. IME British are receiving fresh sup
plies every day. One can predict when they, themselves, will start an offensive. Our supplies are coming in too slowly and they are coming through the harbors of Tripoli and Benghazi instead of through Dema. This means that everything has to be brought up along the one coastal road, a distance of up to 2,000 kilometers.
“The British may know about our offensive and when it will start. It seems our reports and radio communications are being intercepted. But they don't know where the main thrust will come.” Von Bismarck then gave us combat orders and stressed the fact that, by means of a vast night march, Rommel planned to move the whole of the Afrika Korps around the south of Bir Hacheim and swing it north, so as to cut off Tobruk and thrust eastward to the Egyptian border. A feint attack in the north on the Gazala position was to deceive the British.
My panzer reconnaissance battalion, acting independently on the right wing, was to advance around Bir Hacheim, giving it a North Africa, 1942: Rommel, the Desert Fox 99 wide berth, and block the coastal road east of Tobruk, as well as secure the right flank of the Afrika Korps by means of patrols.
We assembled during the night of 26/27 May 1942. It was pitchblack. Only the stars of the clear southern sky were to be seen. The exact compass bearings were known to every vehicle.
These had to be strictly observed, so that the thousands of vehicles traveling through the dark night would not get mixed up.
It was a ghostly scene. Each man could just see the vehicle to his front or side. We drove at reduced speed so as to avoid raising too much dust and thus lose contact with our neighbors.
We pushed on slowly through the night. After a while, we knew we were south of Bir Hacheim, though we couldn't see it.
Far to the north we saw the flashes of the Italian artillery Are. As we heard later, on the Gazala front Rommel had sent captured British tanks and trucks fitted with old aircraft engines across the terrain to simulate a tank attack. The attack on the Gazala position was mounted by Italian divisions under a German general.
