by Peter Albano
They were firing, streaking after the fleeing Junkers like lions after jackals. Lloyd waved a fist into the sky. “You’re too late, damn your bloody souls.” Four more JU 87s crashed into the desert far to the west. Then, just as quickly as they had appeared, the aircraft were gone, leaving the sky miraculously empty of both enemy and friend. An incredibly sweet silence descended on the desert.
Brigadier Higgins gripped his side. Even breathing was difficult. But he ignored the injury, looked up and down his line. He saw huge smoking craters, burning tanks, steel plate twisted into unrecognizable shapes, engines, turrets, treads twisted like warm spaghetti, bodies, pieces of bodies. He pounded the turret until his fist ached. “My lads—my lads. Oh, God, what have I done?”
Dempster’s calm voice on the intercom jarred him. “Are you all right, General?”
Lloyd shook his head. Dempster had overheard him even over the rumble of the diesels. He took several quick, shallow breaths and cursed his momentary lapse. Felt composure return. He must present the iron spine, the steely resolve of command. And the men must not know about his severe pain. He spoke with his usual firm, evenly modulated timbre, “Quite well, Corporal Dempster.”
“They’re coming. General.”
Lloyd stared through the dissipating clouds of dust and smoke and he could, see the Panzer Ills looming larger. His professionalism took over and suddenly the pain seemed to diminish. “APC.”
“APC, sir,” came from Murphy.
Lloyd keyed the radio. “This is Rooney-oh-One. Rooney Command, stand by to engage enemy armor. Acknowledge.’’
“Rooney-oh-Four standing by,” “Rooney-oh-Two standing by,” began to come through his earphones. In all, ten commanders acknowledged. Lloyd felt encouraged. He still had eleven Matildas, far more than he had expected. He remembered the Western Front and the stupendous bombardments of millions of shells that preceded attacks. Many times, he had emerged from his dugout into a moonscape of obliterated trenches, villages flattened to dust, forests stripped clean of every leaf, branch, and stump, even hills blown away and leveled. Invariably, he had been convinced that only he and those sheltered with him in his command dugout had survived in the entire sector. But when the attacks came, Tommies emerged from the desolation like ants from deep burrows and the Enfields, Vickers, and Lewis guns began to bark and stutter. Now, here at Bir Fuad Ridge, the tough Englishman was proving he was still very hard to kill. An old saying ran through the brigadier’s mind. The last are the hardest to kill. He waved a fist at the approaching panzers. “Come on you bloody bastards. I’ve been killing you since 1914 and I won’t stop until you’re all dead.”
“You bloody well tell ‘em, Gen’ral, sir,” he heard Murphy shout up from the turret. “We’ll send ‘em all to ‘ell,’ sir.”
Lloyd watched the approaching enemy. They were within a mile. Advancing in groups of five. The usual tactic. Three leading, two trailing to provide a fire base. When engaged, usually at five- hundred-yards or less, the fives would leapfrog, leaders becoming the fire base, trailing tanks taking the point. Now he could see more half-tracks and trucks pouring from the wadi and this time the infantry was deploying behind the tanks. This was no diversion. He grabbed his microphone.
‘Scrooge! This is Rooney-oh-One. I have twenty-five Panzer Threes advancing on my front supported by infantry in battalion strength. I have sustained heavy casualties. Request permission to withdraw to Position Baker.” Lloyd glanced over his shoulder. “Position Baker” was a low, long ridge of sand about six hundred yards to his rear. He could regroup, narrow his front, and concentrate his fire.
His earphones squawked with a harsh voice. “Negative, Rooney-oh-One. Hold your position.”
Lloyd felt his guts contort with art amalgam of rage and frustration. He traced a finger over his sore side, trying to determine if any ribs were broken. He actually expected to find broken bones protruding, but there were none. His lips drew back into a grim line and he spat into the microphone, “I don’t have the strength to hold. The enemy is making a major effort here. Get your bloody arse up here and see for yourself.”
“Rooney-oh-One. Observe RT discipline. You are to hold.”
“Then send me some support!”
“Rooney-oh-One. Out!”
Lloyd punched the turret angrily. He did not need his binoculars. The panzers were only eight-hundred-yards away, advancing slowly and deliberately. In fact, the leaders had already passed the first burning half-track and entered the killing ground. The battlefield was silent, only the rumbling sounds of idling engines could be heard.
The brigadier stared at his enemy. The Panzer III was familiar, now. He had destroyed a half dozen, inspected them inside and out: the wide four-hundred-millimeter tracks that gave excellent traction even in loose sand; six idler wheels and widely spaced return rollers supporting the heavy tracks; thirty-millimeter armor plate bolted to the twenty-millimeter mantlet front faces of both hull and turrets; to the left side the closed driver’s visor in the hull; the powerful fifty-millimeter gun and two coaxially mounted 7.92mm machine guns; the turret with its high commander’s cupola and its five vision ports now covered with sliding shutters. It was the equal of the Matilda II, perfectly adapted to the desert, and it outnumbered him more than two-to-one. They would be overun, wiped out.
He was very exposed. Every instinct told him to drop into the turret and pull the hatch cover down. But he could see infantry crowding close behind the panzers. He had no choice. He must wait, remain at the Besa as long as possible. He wiped the perspiration from his forehead with the back of his hand as if fear was a mask he could rip from his face and discard. Breathing in sharp, short breaths and with trembling hands, he grasped the pistol grip and brought the bead to his enemy. He knew the feel of the weapon would calm him. Slowly, he pulled his lips back from his teeth and the leer was that of a death’s head. He waited.
The Matildas of the Fourth Armored Brigade had two advantages—their diesel fuel was not as explosive as the Panzer Ill’s petrol and they were dug in, offering only their turrets and the tops of their hulls to the enemy. Direct hits on the turrets, guns, or on the turret tracks—the small space between the turret and the hull—were necessary to disable. Lloyd keyed the intercom, “Gunner. Give me a range to the leading tank.”
Glancing down into the turret, Lloyd could see Dempster with his eye glued to his split-image range finder. “Six-hundred-seventy- yards, sir.”
“Very well. Report every hundred.”
More equipment was pouring up out of the wadi. Artillery. At least two batteries of howitzers were unlimbering on a small rise to the south of the mouth of the wadi. They were big pieces. Ten-point-five-centimeter field guns capable of attacking his line with plunging fire. This was something the fifty-millimeter guns of the panzers could not do.
“Scrooge, this is Rooney-oh-One,” Lloyd said into his microphone. “I have two batteries of ten-point-five howitzers on my front. Enemy tanks and infantry advancing. In ten more minutes, there’ll be a two-thousand-yard hole here.”
The voice was flat and dehumanized, “Hold your position, Rooney-oh-One.’’
Uncontrolled rage burst through Lloyd’s lips, “Up your bloody arse. I’ll save my lads any way I can. Out!” The voice shrieked into his earphones, but he switched the circuit off.
“Six-hundred-yards, General,” Dempster reported.
“Bernice. Bernice,” Lloyd whispered to himself. “I’ve been a terrible husband. You deserved better.”
There was a blast as a panzer struck a mine. Flung into the air, it rolled over onto its side and then toppled completely over. Treads still turning, it looked ridiculously like a turtle on its back. Two more struck mines and stopped, burning, crews tumbling out and running back to the protection of their own infantry. The odds were lowered but still heavily weighted against the Fourth Armored Brigade.
“Five-hund
red-yards.”
Lloyd switched on his command circuit, “Rooney Command, this is Rooney-oh-One. Commence firing! Commence! Commence!”
The Matildas fired almost as one. Because the Panzer Ill’s front hull and turret armor was the thickest, each gunner selected a target to his right or left, aiming for treads, bogies, sprockets, or hull shot traps. With a tungsten carbide core, the two-pounder APC rounds were capable of penetrating forty-seven millimeters of armor at five-hundred-yards. However, if deflection increased over thirty degrees, penetrating power dropped off severely. Dempster fired on the first tank to his left.
His first round blew off a return roller and the panzer lurched to a stop. His second round punched through a flat spot in the hull just below the turret and flame and smoke shot out of ventilators and observation ports. The hatch popped open and a German with his clothes flaming rolled to the ground. Lloyd could hear his screams over the din of battle.
The Germans opened fire, flames racing up and down their line. A steady drum fire assailed Lloyd’s ears and there were hissing sounds as if a bag full of snakes were suspended over his head. Then a deep-throated, fluttering roar began, booming through the sharp bark of the tanks’ cannons like bass drums underscoring snare drums. The howitzers had opened fire. Hurled high into the sky, the thirty-two-pound projectiles plunged almost vertically into the ridge. The big shells parted the air with a shredding rustle and slammed into the hard-baked desert, ripping the surface with a shower of explosions. A haze of smoke and dust began to cloud the battlefield. Obscured by smoke and dust, the German infantry was not visible. Lloyd knew every one of his tank commanders would be killed in the next few seconds. He keyed the radio, “Rooney Command, button up but keep a keen eye open for infantry.”
He dropped down into the turret and slammed the cover down. He did not lock it. Men trapped in a burning tank did not relish fumbling with locked hatches.
Dempster had the two-pounder trained thirty degrees to the left and firing as quickly as Murphy could load. “I put the wind up the sod!” Dempster exulted. “Boffed him good. They’re frying.” There was a cheer.
“Ammunition count?”
“Under fifty rounds, General,” Murphy said.
“Very well. Make each one count.”
Lloyd grabbed the handles of his periscope. A pain so vicious he groaned wracked his side. With sheer strength of will, he stared into his eyepiece and swept the field. At least nine panzers were disabled, most burning in pools of their own petrol. But a dozen or more were only two-hundred-yards from the ridge. There was a sharp metallic thud like a hammer striking a pot and bits of paint and dust rained from the turret top. They had been hit by a fifty-millimeter shell. Then another and another. But the tough seventy-eight-millimeter armor of the turret bounced them off. However, the heavy 10.5-centimeter shells of the howitzers did not bounce off.
Swinging his lens to the south and then to the north, he saw at least three more Matildas wrecked and burning. Survivors could be seen scrambling out of the wrecked vehicles and running down the reverse slope. He might have a half-dozen tanks left. He turned his channel selector. Ordered the brigade to back out. “But stay with me. Go when I go, stop when I stop.”
Lloyd said to Powell, “Sergeant, back out at your best speed.”
“Backing out, sir!” Powell pushed in the clutch, shifted into reverse, grabbed his tillers, and floored the accelerator. The tank lurched backward. With a best reverse speed of only eight-miles-an-hour, the tank seemed to be crawling out of its pit and down the slope. Mercifully, they were free of the fifty-millimeter fire. But not the howitzers. The big shells continued to lob over the ridge and explode all around. The gunners were firing blind, missing the tanks but doing terrible execution among the British survivors fleeing their wrecked tanks. Boiling with anger and frustration, Lloyd swung the periscope around. He could only count five Matildas. He said to Dempster, “Let me know when we’re eighty-yards from the top of the ridge.”
Dempster glued his eyes to the range finder.”Eighty yards, sir!”
The brigadier spoke into his microphone, “Rooney Command, halt. Targets of opportunity as they crest the ridge. Hit ‘em in the guts.”
Lloyd expected the Germans to be riding a wave of victory, to crest the ridge at a high speed, exposing their soft underbellies. He was right.
At full speed and shedding sand and dust from their treads in swirling clouds, three panzers fairly leapt over the crest of Bir Fuad Ridge. At only eighty yards, the British gunners could not miss the exposed undersides. All three panzers were hit simultaneously.
With the first hits, their fuel tanks exploded, great balls of flame like incandescent red balloons rolling into the sky, followed by greasy black smoke. The panzers skewed drunkenly and came to a halt, two or three crewmen tumbling out of their hatches and racing back to the crest. Then at least ten more roared over the crest, churning up a huge storm of dust like a small khamsin. Two more were disabled, but the survivors charged down the slope followed by infantry. Lloyd knew there was no escape now.
Suddenly a hail of large shells began to fall among the enemy armor. At first, Lloyd thought the howitzers were firing short. But these were high-velocity shells fired on a flat trajectory. “Must be twenty-five-pounders.” There was a cheer as the men realized they were receiving support from the Eighth Army’s most deadly field piece. Dozens of shells poured in, smashing the panzers and bringing their headlong charge to an abrupt halt.
The infantry fled back to the crest of the ridge, leaving heaps of dead and wounded behind to mingle with the British dead. They had taken the bait and been trapped. Frantically, the German drivers jammed into reverse and backed toward the ridge. Now the Germans sought the protection of the reverse slope where the big shells could not reach them. Only four of the Panzer Ills made it to the ridge. The shelling stopped.
Lloyd stood and threw open the hatch. He felt a hot stab of pain, but reveling in the unexpected reprieve, he ignored it. Slowly, he pulled himself up and studied the slope. He could see nine destroyed Germans, three on the crest and six perhaps fifty-yards in front of the Matildas. Most were burning and there were bodies scattered around them. An entire crew of five Germans stood behind a panzer with its treads blown off. They held their hands over their heads.
“Let’s boff the bastards,” he heard Dempster growl, turning the turret and bringing the coaxial machine gun to bear.
“They gets them Jenny Conven’suns,” Murphy said.
“That’s right. The Geneva Conventions,” Lloyd said, correcting the cockney’s pronunciation. “They’re prisoners of war. Hold your fire, Corporal Dempster.”
The brigadier looked around at his own command. The Germans’ howitzers and fifty-millimeter guns had done their work, too. Two of his tanks were burning and a third was turned on its side. But the German howitzers were silent. They must be packing it up. He felt anguish well up and clot darkly in his throat. He wiped his cheek with his sleeve. It came away wet and smeared with dirt.
He heard engines behind him. Diesels. Matildas of a reserve brigade storming over Position Baker through at least four batteries of twenty-five-pounders. And behind the tanks he could see infantry: chamber-pot helmets, khaki shorts, Enfields at high port and tipped with bayonets. A new voice squawked in Lloyd’s earphones, “Rooney-oh-One. This is Pygmalion-oh-One. You are relieved. Good show, old boy. You bloody well taught the Jerries a lesson.”
Lloyd’s voice was uneven as he spoke into the microphone, “Roger, Pygmalion-oh-One. I need medical personnel immediately. I have taken heavy casualties.”
“They’re right behind us, Rooney-oh-One. A great victory, truly a great victory.”
Lloyd looked around the burning field, at his destroyed command. A great victory, ran through his mind again and again. As far as he could see, only one other Matilda of his brigade was undamaged. He began to laugh raucously despite
red-hot flaming pains in his side.”A great victory, A great victory,’’ he repeated, over and over. He became weak, knees bent and gave way. He sagged down into Murphy’s arms.
“You’ve caught one, Gen’ral ‘iggins. ‘an you ‘ave, sir.” He lowered Lloyd into his seat.
Lloyd choked back his groans. “Dash it all. I told you, a sore rib or two—that’s the lot, I’m sure.” He was very weak and the tank seemed to be spinning.
Powell opened a side port and said to Lloyd, “Another bunch of Krauts, sir. Five more coming this way, sir. One has most of his clothes burned off. The others are carrying him.”
Murphy grabbed the first-aid kit. “I’ll see to ‘em, sir.”
“We owe the buggers nothin’,” Dempster said.
“The Jenny Conven’suns,” Murphy said. He looked at Lloyd. “Sir?”
Mind numbed by shock and pain, Lloyd lacked the energy to reason, exercise judgment. He just wanted to sit with his head in his hands and savor the thought he was still alive and every member of his crew was unhurt. This always happened to him when a battle was over and the killing lust faded. All survivors felt it. “All right. Carry on. Private Murphy,” Lloyd said, sagging, head drooping.
The cockney scrambled up through the hatch.
“That’s a jug full of rot, sir. He just wants souvenirs,” Dempster said. “He’ll sell them in Cairo, find a whore, and bonk his brains out. I’ll lay my bit on that, General.”
An insidious doubt nagged at Lloyd. Feeling slightly stronger, he forced himself to his feet and pulled himself up through the hatch. There was a roar of diesels and he saw the first Matilda of the relief force passing through his line. The commander waved at him. Lloyd waved back. He looked for Murphy and found him not more than twenty-feet to one side of the tank. He was walking toward the Germans who had placed their wounded comrade on the ground and stood behind him. They were well clear of the coaxial machine gun that was still trained on the first group of Germans standing beside their tank.
