El Alamein, Jack Murray [best autobiographies to read .txt] 📗

the tank. Outwardly he was as unruffled as ever, but he seemed angry.

‘I don’t know how we missed that. He’s just destroyed one of our tanks.’

Manfred spun his periscope around and saw the burning Mark IV. They were now in position to fire at the British tank. Manfred hurled another cartridge into the breech. Beer fired.

‘Yes!’ exclaimed Kummel. ‘Direct hit.’

‘Good shooting,’ said Manfred.

Beer grinned and shrugged like it was all in a day’s work. Manfred risked a quick look through his periscope. He saw the British crew escaping through hatches. Another shell hit it moments later. Manfred could not see if this had killed the escaping tank men. They pushed forward. The going was better and they were approaching something like full speed.

The firing had stopped now. Manfred could not see anyone defending the crest of the ridge that they were heading towards. The question on his mind and, he suspected, everyone else’s was what was on the other side. Was this a trap? He glanced towards Beer. The Berliner appeared nervous. At least I’m not alone, thought Manfred. His heart was beginning to race now.

‘Keep going, sir?’ asked Hubbuch as they approached the ridge.

‘Of course,’ snapped Kummel irritably.

Manfred switched his attention to what lay ahead. Their tank was at the head of the regiment racing forward. The ridge was only a few metres high. But it was enough to hide what lay behind. Thirty metres. Twenty metres. Ten metres.

‘My God,’ exclaimed Manfred as they crested the ridge.

Even Kummel was shocked by the sight that greeted them. Hubbuch began to laugh. Beer joined him moments later. The laughter of men given a reprieve from a firing squad and then told they were free to leave.

‘Airfield directly in front,’ intoned Kummel.

‘Armour?’ asked Cramer.

There were no tanks. No guns. Just a dozen fighters sitting undamaged on the airfield. Kummel reported what he could see but by then Cramer was also over the ridge.

‘Looks like they left in a hurry,’ exclaimed Cramer. There was no hiding the hint of jubilation in his voice. Relief, too.

-

Manfred walked around the Msus airfield in a daze. It was becoming apparent that the capture would prove to be a coup for the Afrika Korps and one obtained at little cost. Aside from the dozen or so working fighters there was a large fuel dump and supplies. These had been brought to the airfield by the Allies with the planned assault on Tripoli in mind. Manfred felt like laughing at the hubris of the enemy.

Something shiny caught his eye around fifty metres outside the perimeter. He walked towards it. A cloud slid in front of the sun and he lost track of the glinting metal. He pressed on towards where he’d seen it last. Just ahead was a slit trench. He stopped. It seemed unlikely there could be any Tommies left. He turned around and saw the airfield swarming with Afrika Korps men. A few were also taking the opportunity to stretch their legs and smoke.

Manfred decided he was worrying about nothing. He continued walking over to the trench. From about thirty metres away he could see a metal object lying on the other side. It looked like a small knife. The closer he got to the trench the more he became aware of a smell. The smell of death. It became so over-powering he felt he might gag.

He reached the trench and found a dead soldier. He looked away; unable to stomach the horrific injuries that were plainly visible. Nausea swept through him. He grabbed the Lee-Enfield rifle and helmet from the trench and then began to kick sand over the dead soldier. It wasn’t much of a grave, but he did what he could then planted the gun at its head and draped the dead soldier’s helmet over the barrel. The small knife lay there gleaming in the sun. He lifted it up. It was too small to be a bayonet. He put it in his pocket and returned to the airfield.

-

Colonel Cramer was everywhere. Barking orders to anyone that would listen, which was everyone. Manfred could hear him ordering that the food supplies be handed over to the support echelon. This was a disappointment. They would have provided a welcome alternative to the universally despised food rations that the German tank crews had to live on.

The airfield was proving a veritable gold mine. Not only had they captured vital additional food supplies and a number of Crusader, Stuart and Valentine tanks but also the workshop and tools which been repairing the damaged tanks.

‘Christmas is a bit late this year,’ said Manfred coming alongside Gerhardt. The day was just beginning to give way to night. They went for a walk up onto a ridge to get a better view of the airfield and the activity.

‘Have you tried this yet?’ agreed Gerhardt biting into some chocolate Manfred had seized before the arrival of the supply echelon.

Manfred grinned and replied sardonically, ‘Is there any left? That was for sharing.’

Gerhardt ignored the barb and replied, ‘A few days rest here will do us good.’

‘More than that and you’ll be too fat to get into the tank,’ said Manfred, deliberately focusing on the chocolate.

Gerhardt rubbed his stomach with pride. There was not a spare kilo on his frame. He, like most of the Afrika Korps, had lost weight since arriving in North Africa. Poor diet, irregular meals and the heat of the tank meant that what they ate in no way replenished what was lost. He sat up and scanned the scene below. Dozens of trucks were dotted around the airfield. Hundreds of men were busy recording what they’d captured and loading it onto the trucks, ‘I wonder if our Field Marshal will make an appearance to look at our haul.’

‘He’s probably chasing the British himself. He doesn’t stop.’

Other groups of men were using the time to do as they were, catching up with friends from other tanks. The fluid nature of crews often meant that you could be in