by Max Hennessy
Josh was riding outside the tank now to get a better view, wearing only his faded green forage cap, his face set, his head moving sharply to left and right, watchful for any sign of hesitation. Suddenly out of the smother of smoke small parties of Germans rose and began to run. The Besas and Brownings chattered and many of them fell; others immediately threw up their hands. Several staggered about, some of them weeping and half-hysterical after the shelling. The tank commanders lifted their hands and jerked a thumb rearwards. Stumbling through the formations, blinded by the smoke and deafened by the din, a few crossed the route of the tanks.
‘Oh, Christ!’ Josh heard Ackroyd yell, then he heard a man scream as he was caught by the tank treads and whipped beneath. As they moved ahead, he lay like a crushed insect on the stained earth. Nobody said anything, all of them trying to force the incident from their minds.
They were into the minefield now and tank after tank went up, each one lurching to a standstill. The Germans immediately began to plaster them with artillery. Crews began to bale out and Josh saw one group, running rearwards, surrounded by smoke, flying stones and earth. As they passed him, their numbers had been halved. A tank nearby began to move aside to take evasive action and Josh yelled down to Ackroyd and they moved alongside so he could shout across the intervening space over the din as the armour-piercing shot flashed between them.
‘Get on, man,’ he yelled. ‘Where are you going? Get on!
‘Keep going!’
Their machine guns blazing, they had reached the road that crossed the valley, but the darkness was almost totally gone now and, as the sky began to lighten, the enemy guns began to hammer them. Some of the surrendering Germans, seeing their opportunity, ran back to their weapons. A wall loomed up and it was impossible to see the German guns, so that they could only lash the land ahead with their machine guns. The approaching sun was tinting the funeral plumes of dying tanks like blood. As day came, the telegraph poles became silver-edged and in the thin light Josh saw a gunpit just ahead, gunners struggling to bring their weapon to bear.
‘The gunpit, Ackroyd! Dead ahead! Full speed! Gunner, let ’em have it!’
The gun cracked and he heard the clatter of the ejected cartridge. The gun barrel was still moving as the tank straddled it, the whole huge weapon wrenched into a twisted mass of wreckage. As they backed off, Josh saw Reeves’ tank poised on the edge of another gunpit to his right, its machine guns wiping out the crew. Shattered or crushed, the guns began to fall silent but the big 88s and 7.62s on either side of the valley were opening fire through the mist. Reeves’ tank began to burn and Josh saw him leap out, run back and clamber on to the tank behind. Pallovicini’s tank lurched to a stop, smoke pouring from its louvres, then as the crew scrambled clear, it was overwhelmed in an explosion and a sheet of white flame that sent debris and huge dark clouds of smoke up into the sky. A man with his clothes on fire was rolling in the dewy grass, while his friends slapped him with their bare hands trying to put out the flames. Somewhere inside a man was screaming above the clatter of tracks and the bursting of shells.
Josh was standing upright on his tank now in front of the guns. The brigade major was close behind as he had been throughout the advance. ‘I wish you’d get down a bit, sir,’ he yelled.
Josh ignored him, indifferent to the gun blasts, the chattering machine guns and the heavy shots that screamed by in red and white darts, hitting the sloping sides of the tanks and ricocheting in high parabolas into the sky. The 19th were almost through and Reeves was standing up on a new tank, a microphone to his mouth, waving his arms to encourage his men forward, clearly prepared to lose the whole regiment, if necessary, in the hope that the following 92nd would take up where they left off. Their attack had been a complete success so far and they had got right among the first line of the enemy guns, dug-in tanks and machine guns before the Germans knew what was happening. German gunners were throwing up their hands, concerned now chiefly with escaping being crushed to death, and dozens of them seemed to be streaming away, jumping into whatever transport was handy. Four German officers scrambled into a staff car and Josh took a pot-shot at it with his revolver. To his astonishment it burst into flames and the officers all baled out again, and stood with their hands in the air.
Dodgin was leading A Squadron of the 19th up and down, crushing the trails of guns so they couldn’t be towed away. His tank in a protecting gunpit, Josh heard his voice come through on the radio. ‘Daisy Leader, we’re through at this point, but there’s another line of guns ahead. I’m moving up to them.’
As the sky grew lighter Josh saw the ground all round Reeves’ tanks explode where the anti-tank guns had spotted them. Four tanks seemed to burst into flames simultaneously and he saw Reeves once more running into the smoke, looking for another tank.
Trying to bring some order to the confusion, he saw a line of tanks approaching in the distance and assumed it was the Hussars or the Yeomanry. Then there was a tremendous clang and his tank lurched to a standstill, the armour glowing red where the shot had hit. They scrambled clear, hoping the brigade major’s tank would be just behind, but the brigade major had disappeared so they scrambled on to the next tank that appeared and ordered the crew out.
It was possible to see now that the oncoming tanks were German and Josh wondered where in God’s name they’d come from. Reeves’ squadrons were under heavy fire again from both the guns and the advancing tanks, and one or two were being forced backwards, the survivors from wrecked vehicles huddled round them.
The panzers were within a few hundred yards, adding their fire to that of the guns ahead and on the slopes on either side.
‘Harbottle! Tank on the end of the line! On!’
There was a flash on the German tank then ammunition and fuel began to burn, throwing sparks in all directions, the thin crackle of exploding cartridges rising over the din of the battle. For a moment the flames and smoke seemed to hesitate, then the tank blew up. A ball of fire appeared at the base of the turret, slowly expanding as it lifted the turret and shattered the sides. Out of the flames the debris spread upwards, littering the ground for yards around with sparks and burning fragments, while feathery plumes of white arched out of open hatchways as the smoke bombs caught fire. The whole area was lit by a brilliant light then, as suddenly as they had flared up, the flames died away, leaving only a pall of black smoke lit by the spluttering remains of the tank. For a moment they were awed into silence then the radios started again, and almost at once the Germans began to hit back viciously.
Four more tanks were hit and all round Josh others were blazing, filling the air with the acrid smell of burning rubber. A group on his left was firing at a battery but panzers started hitting them one after the other and he saw the Shermans swing to face them. The advance had run into serious trouble and the whole world seemed to be full of flashing lights, flame, smoke, burning vehicles, lumbering shapes and men on their feet firing with small arms at anything they could see.
It was full daylight as Reeves appeared in front. He was struggling with his gunner to extricate his driver and co-driver whose apertures had been locked fast by the shell that had hit his tank. The armour was already red hot from the flames that were leaping out behind, and a group of German gunners started firing on them with machine pistols.
‘Gunner,’ Josh shouted. ‘Left! Further left! On! Let ’em have it!’
The Germans fell back in the trench as Reeves gave up his struggle and began to make his way back.
As Josh’s tank passed him, there was a clang of steel on the front of the turret which sent fitments flying, then a blast of flame and smoke which spread into the turret and was followed by another dull explosion. The shock wave swept past Josh as he stood in the cupola, singeing his hands and face and leaving him breathless. The shot had penetrated the hull and twisted the machine gun out of its mounting. A jagged piece of metal had torn Robinson’s he
ad from his shoulders, wrecked the radio and started a fire in the ammunition boxes on the floor. Smoke and cordite fumes filled the turret and on the floor, licking menacingly near the main stowage bin, were innumerable small tongues of flame. For a moment, Josh was too dazed to move, his limbs anchored, and Ackroyd turned a blackened, scorched face to him, his eyes unnaturally large.
‘Let’s get out, sir!’
They struggled free and ran back, still dazed, to clamber on to the next tank that appeared. The radio was out of action so Josh tapped the commander on the shoulder. He was a young officer he couldn’t remember seeing before and he seemed to be only just out of school.
He gestured at the German fire which now seemed to be directed to the tanks on the left, and ordered the young officer to lead his troop to the right. As another squadron came up from behind, he scrambled down and ran across to the leading tank and shouted up.
‘Go through on your right,’ he yelled, pointing. ‘There’s a rise there that will hide you a little.’
As he returned towards the tank he had taken over, he saw it being hit repeatedly and then that his orders had been misunderstood by the new squadron which was driving straight ahead into the furnace of fire. In a few moments, the leading tank was on fire and several others behind were stopped and smoking.
He scrambled with Ackroyd and Harbottle on to another tank. ‘Keep going,’ he shouted above the din. Gesturing for the microphone, he began to issue orders. ‘Keep going! Get through!’
‘Get stuffed!’ The voice belonged to some disgusted NCO who was assuming he had lost his head.
As the dawn mist evaporated, Josh glanced towards the west, wondering where 92nd Armoured were. He had expected them to come through on his heels by this time but there was no sign of them against the lightening horizon, nothing but the wreckage of tanks, guns and men. As far as the eye could see the brigade lay shattered, tank after tank burning, the smoke mingling with the morning mist, the flames touching everything within reach with the colour of blood, only a single tank still defiantly shooting it out here and there with the distant guns.
The devastation was appalling. Dead and dying littered the route across the valley, in trucks and bren carriers, in trenches and over the trails of guns, some silent and grey, others noisy with pain. Trucks, guns, ammunition, odd bits of clothing were burning and tanks of all kinds, both British and German, were scattered over the whole area, with no logic to where they lay. They faced every possible direction, intermingled, crippled and distorted, their crews around them, stretched out, sitting, sprawling. Some seemed untouched and only the pallor stopped you calling out to them. The doctor, the padre and the technical adjutant ranged among them, doing what they could. Over the whole area was a brooding air of death.
Bitterness raised the taste of bile in Josh’s mouth. He was furiously angry. He had sacrificed everything in the hope that the 92nd would be there to crash through the breaches he had torn in the wall of guns, but the support they’d been expecting had not materialised, and, still firing at the deadly 88s, the surviving Shermans were struggling to push eastwards on their own. As they shook themselves out, expecting a counter-attack, Josh tried to count.
Small groups of men, some of them bleeding, all of them grey-faced with shock, were huddling behind hulls of stopped tanks. An officer was lying on the ground, his face white, blood on his chest. Here and there a small group tried to make their way back with a desperately wounded comrade.
The surviving tanks moved about in the smoke, keeping on the move so as not to present an easy target.
As he looked for a face he knew, Josh saw the shapes of tanks coming through the smoke. One of them clattered to a stop and the head of the brigadier of the 92nd appeared in the hatch. Shelling was still going on and the air seemed thick with armour-piercing and high-explosive missiles. Josh was sitting on the turret of his tank, tired and indifferent to the firing. As the other brigadier dismounted and crossed to him, he waved a hand towards the east.
‘All you have to do is pass through and fan out,’ he said. ‘We’ve made a gap for you.’
Staring into the chaos ahead, the brigadier of the 92nd frowned. ‘I’ve never seen anything in my life that looks less like a gap,’ he said.
As the 92nd moved past, Josh picked up the microphone. As he gave his orders, what was left of the 43rd rallied, formed up again and followed.
When they finally halted at dusk, the whole valley was full of vehicles moving ahead and swinging north and south. Tanks, guns and lorries were pouring through the gap that had been smashed in the defences. As they stopped and regrouped, Josh climbed slowly down. Bredon of the Derbyshires was dead, he knew, and the Hussar colonel wounded. Reeves seemed to have disappeared.
The brigade major arrived. He had a bandage round his head, his clothes were scorched and blackened by flames and he was on foot and looked harassed and distressed.
‘What’s the butcher’s bill?’ Josh asked.
The brigade major opened his notebook. ‘Out of ninety-seven tanks which made it to the start line,’ he said, ‘we’ve lost seventy-five and out of some four hundred officers and men who manned them we lost two hundred and twenty- nine. That’s the tally so far, sir, but I expect it’ll be different in the end. Some we won’t know about. Others will turn up. For the whole night’s operation the total tank losses were eighty-seven. We have nineteen left undamaged. Nearly every squadron leader’s tank in the brigade was destroyed. The Yeomanry have lost Colonel Bredon and most of their senior officers. It’s much the same with the Hussars.’
‘What about the Lancers?’
‘Only four officers left unwounded. Twelve killed outright.’
‘Got any names?’
‘Yes, sir. Captain Dodgin’s gone. Packer. Greatorex. Flood.’
‘Pallovicini?’
‘Him, too, sir.’
‘He should have something,’ Josh said thoughtfully. ‘The way he led over that bridge was splendid. Make a note of it.’ He paused, lacking the courage to ask the question he knew had to be asked.
‘Toby Reeves?’
The brigade major hesitated, knowing the friendship that had existed between them.
‘I’m sorry, sir. He’s just been found.’
Josh was silent. It seemed he would have to look elsewhere for a godfather for his son.
He drew a breath, so deep it hurt his chest. ‘I just hope the general’s pleased,’ he said.
Eight
When Leduc drove up later in the morning, old men and women were just beginning to emerge from the neighbouring woods to carry off their dead, many of them boys of fourteen and fifteen or middle-aged men hurriedly pressed into uniform for the defence of the Drosseltal.
He found Josh asleep beside his tank. Tyas Ackroyd, his trousers smeared with Robinson’s blood, was brewing tea. Nearby a few tanks were dispersed.
Leduc climbed from his jeep and walked across. ‘How long’s he been asleep, Sergeant?’
Ackroyd rose slowly, his face grey with shock and fatigue.
‘Couple of hours, sir.’
Leduc nodded, bent and gave Josh a little push with his foot.
‘Sorry to wake you,’ he said quietly as he stirred. ‘92nd are going like a pack of hounds. It’s over. It must be over. There’s nothing else but the end now. How are you fixed to move on?’
Josh sat up. ‘We can move,’ he said.
‘Where are your tanks?’
Josh waved a tired hand at the little group of vehicles around him. ‘There they are.’
Leduc looked round, frowning. ‘I don’t mean your headquarters tanks. I mean your regiments.’
Josh waved his arm again. ‘Those are the regiments.’ His voice was hard and brittle. ‘That’s all that’s left of them. Your hundred per cent casualties were very nearly just that.’
> Josh watched Leduc climb into his jeep and drive away, then he stared at his remaining tanks, still numb with shock. The 19th were down to five tanks.
Seeing him alone, Ackroyd walked across to him, and handed him a mug of tea.
‘Do you good, sir. Nice and sweet.’
‘Thank you, Tyas.’
‘A right Balaclava, sir, that was. Let’s hope it’s the last.’
‘Amen to that, Tyas.’
As Ackroyd turned away, Josh stood with the mug of tea in his hands, aware of its warmth against his fingers. Their self-immolating attack had been quite incorrect, but it had been the deciding factor in breaking the German line, and in the end, he supposed, it was a fully justified use of armour.
It had been Balaclava all over again. It was strange how things followed a pattern. His own seemed identical with his grandfather’s. The old man had also taken part in a sacrificial charge. He, too, had married an American girl he had rescued from battle and lost his oldest friend in war. But he had also survived to a distinguished old age. Perhaps, Josh thought, he would, too.
He was beginning to feel better after his sleep, though he knew it would be weeks before he would cease to be affected by the loss of his friends throughout all ranks: Toby Reeves. Syd Dodgin. Pallovicini. Greatorex. Packer. Flood. Bredon of the Derbyshires. Sergeant Sparks. Robinson. The list seemed endless.
‘It is always the tallest poppies that are plucked.’ His grandfather had picked up the expression from the Graf von Hartmann, whose son had married his daughter. And so it was. What a clearing away there had been. Death, he made himself think, was really no different from a posting. Toby Reeves and all the others had merely gone away. It was the only way to regard it. The tragedy lay in the fact that they’d never be seen by human eyes again.
He sighed, aware of all the letters that would have to be written to relatives. When a man was wounded or a prisoner it wasn’t too difficult but it was terribly hard to find a mite of comfort when he was dead.
