Crusader (A Novel of WWII Tank Warfare) by Jack Murray (important of reading books .TXT) 📗

the end he decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. Manfredseemed in earnest. If there was nothing else to say, then Basler was certainlynot the man to say it. The merest hint of nod and he was off.

Manfred sat down aware that all the eyes of the tank crew were onhim. This gave him some satisfaction although the missed opportunity to meetsuch men still burned. He wondered what had been said but knew he would neverask. In all probability, Fischer would find some excuse to bring it up. Theyhad to fill the long hours spent in a stinking hot tank some way. Fischer andKastner would, no doubt, speak about the time they met Rommel. He suspected,though, they were as curious to know about Manfred’s experience, so honourswould be even.

Later that night he heard the departure of the men who had comeand lit a fire in the minds of the men in the camp. By then Manfred was lyingon the hard ground, shivering in the night air, alone with the events of theday processing in his mind. They were one day closer to battle. One day closer tohis possible death. Yet one thought above all festered in his heart and itwasn’t the missed opportunity to meet Rommel. All he could think of was amoment when he’d wanted to speak and hadn’t.

It was absurd.

How could he be willing to ride in a tin can towards the murderousfire of the enemy yet feel cowed when it came to expressing an opinion? We allcrave love as a cure for loneliness but, at that moment, Manfred realised hecraved respect more. The esteem of men such as Overath, Fischer and Baslerwould be a shield from the fear he was feeling.

He heard a rustle near him. It was Fischer clutching something inhis hand.

‘I forgot to tell you, the mail came,’ said Fischer, handingManfred a letter. Manfred held the letter up to the light of the tank. It washis father’s handwriting. He tore open the envelope and read the first line.

Dear Manfred,

 

It is with regret and much sadness that I must tell you of thepassing of your mother…

 13

Gabr Fatma, forty miles south of Tobruk, Libya, November 18th,1941

A light rain fell late afternoon as three squadrons, around forty tanks,accompanied by the stink of petrol, rolled to a stop. Each took up their placein a square. Gun turrets traversed into position to cover the surrounding area.Two lanes were created to allow supply trucks access to the centre.

Danny was the last out of the tank. His muscles were fighting arear guard action against cramp. His bones were creaking like a rheumatic oldman, his face a mixture of oil and sand. Oh God, the sand! Danny had long sincedecided he never wanted to visit a beach again; he’d never been to the seaside.The sand seemed to infiltrate every gap in his clothing. It itched damnably.

His clothes felt soiled from the sweat that had gushed from his unwashedbody in the sweltering heat of the tank. What he would have given to be able tosplash in the pond back home. Just the thought of immersing in the cold clearwater made him feel like weeping. Another world. Another life. Would he see itagain?

Danny joined a few of the others in stretching their arms and legs.Blood slowly returned to his limbs; circulation re-started to the outer reachesof aching bodies. He looked around at Holmes as he heard the Gunner’s kneescrack like the gun of a tank.

‘Bloody hell,’ grinned Danny.

Holmes shrugged. Craig guffawed meanwhile and called Holmes an oldman. He was thirty, give or take.

‘Where are we anyway?’ asked Holmes gruffly. Nervousness, too, ifDanny didn’t miss his guess.

It had been a long march. They were through the ‘the Wire’ now,into Cyrenaica. There was no question now. They were heading towards Tobruk.Right now, however, the middle of nowhere seemed to be the most accuratedescription of their location.

It was hot, despite being November. After a few hours in the tank,Danny was sweating and exhausted. The air felt stifling rather than pleasant inhis lungs. Shirtless he stood, scanning the barren-burned emptiness from thetop of the tank. The view would never make itself onto a biscuit tin. Sand,jagged rock and more hard sand broken only by the odd crevice and some darkscrub. Even a poet would have been hard-pushed to ennoble the bleakness of thislandscape.

Stretching could only be allowed to carry on so long. There waswork to be done. Sergeant Reed had already gone to join the troop leaders. Inthe middle stood the two captains, Aston and Cuttwell, plus the twolieutenants, Hutton and Turner. They had made a makeshift table and they wereall studying a map.

‘The bastards are probably lost,’ said the Ulsterman, Craig. Nosentence of Craig’s was complete without the addition of at least one swearword. When the mood or the situation took him, he upped the rate to animpressive every second word. At this point, the combination of his thickAntrim accent and profanity made him virtually unintelligible. This was besidethe point as his passionate intensity spoke volumes for the meaning that thetorrent of words was failing to convey.

The meeting was taking place in the middle of a hum of activity, coughingengines and the smell of fuel. Everyone, Danny included, was immersed in theirown jobs. Every part of the tank needed to be checked. Fuel, oil, wheels, gunsand water. The daily examination of their tank was a never-ending task. Keepingit mobile was everything. It had to be ready the moment it was called intoaction. And one thing was certain: each passing hour brought contact with theenemy closer. The big push was imminent. A movement this size could not goundetected by the Axis forces. The money inside the tank was on an attacktomorrow. A fatalistic dread swept through Danny. Accompanying it was a sensethat whatever happened tomorrow or the day after, it wouldn’t be him. He wouldsurvive.

A few trucks from the echelon arrived containing supplies. Danny,Holmes and Felton were dispatched to take jerricans of water back to the tank.There were around forty cans to load onto the