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

when Manfred had heard of the transfer. It was an honour and clearly a reflection of the fact that he was well thought of. The news of his actions on Tottensontag had clearly made it all the way up to senior command. As with many things in life, Manfred was learning that glory and honours were not bestowed freely. A price was always paid further down the line. For now, Manfred enjoyed special favour by being in the tank of the regiment’s figurehead. The toll would be demanded soon.

Kummel ran a hand through his dark hair and leaned forward. Ernst Hubbuch, the tank driver, handed Kummel a coffee. He took a swig and imparted the news they’d all been expecting.

‘We leave in three hours. We are to take Agedabia and push forward from there. Rommel thinks we can catch the British out before they can reinforce. He’s right. They’re stretched over half of Libya.’

‘I’m sure our leader will be delighted that you concur, sir.’

Kummel grinned at Sergeant Franz Beer, the tank gunner. Beer had ridden with Kummel since their arrival in North Africa. He’d earned the right to be freer in his conversation than the others. Still, it surprised Manfred just how far he could push it with the captain. He wished he could enjoy a similar level of confidence as Beer. Perhaps one day. For the moment he was the new boy in the tank. A loader once more after a brief spell as a driver in another tank. He didn’t mind. The men he was with were the best of the best. But always at the back of his mind were Gerhardt’s words.

‘Your perceptiveness does you credit, Beer. Perhaps you would like to hear what our leader has written.’

Beer and the others nodded. Kummel extracted a piece of paper from his pocket. He took a sip of coffee and ignored the impatient sigh from Beer. Manfred smiled at the little man from Berlin. He was heavyset but nearly a foot shorter than Kummel and Manfred. A few more moments of silence followed as Kummel pretended to study the note. Beer began to whistle. The radio operator, Igor Siefers chuckled. He was relatively new to the tank but was around ten years older than Manfred, like the other members of the crew.

‘It says, as you’re so interested…actually, assemble the men, Beer, would you?’

Beer sighed while Manfred and the others, Kummel included, laughed.

-

‘German and Italian soldiers!’ read Kummel to the assembled 1st Battalion, ‘Behind you lie heavy battles with a vastly superior enemy. Your morale remains unimpaired. At this moment we are considerably stronger than the enemy facing us in the front line. Therefore, we shall proceed today to attack and destroy the enemy. I expect every man to give his utmost in these decisive days. Long live Italy! Long live the great German Reich! Long live our Fuhrer!’

Kummel raised his voice at the end and was rewarded with a full-throated cheer from the assembled ranks. Then, as quickly as they had gathered, they dispersed to their tanks. It was almost 0830. The morning was cold and greyly uninviting. The order to move from Cramer came across the radios.

The tanks rolled forward as sand began to blow into their faces.

‘That’s all we need,’ said Beer. ‘As if fighting the British isn’t enough, we have the bloody weather to cope with here.’

Manfred couldn’t agree more. He detested the desert. He knew why they were here but could not fathom what would make anyone want to live in such a pitiless land. As if to validate Manfred’s feelings, the desert threw up a sandstorm almost immediately they had left the leaguer.

They drove forward blindly. Shutting all hatches didn’t matter. The sand still found a way through, caking their sweat-stained faces with sand and oil. In these conditions they were forced to use periscopes to guide them forward. After half an hour, Kummel called a halt.

‘We’ve reached sand dunes. We’ll have to give the trucks a tow. The sand is too soft. Wheels will never be able to climb these.’

Kummel glanced down at Manfred, the most junior member of the crew. Manfred smiled ruefully and put goggles on. Then he wrapped a scarf around the lower part of his face. To the sound of laughter from Beer, he opened the lower hatch and climbed out.

The sandstorm was not as bad as he’d thought. He’d been in worse. Manfred walked forward towards a group of men standing near one of the large number of trucks.

‘We can help tow one of you,’ said Manfred to an infantry captain. The captain nodded and went to the side of the truck and banged it. Within moments soldiers came pouring out of the truck. A grappling hook was attached to Manfred’s tank.

In all the time Manfred had been out, no words were exchanged. The operation to hitch the truck to the tank took less than a minute, much to Manfred’s relief. The sandstorm was not the strongest he’d encountered, but it could still sting.

Barely a couple of minutes after leaving the tank, Manfred was back inside. He nodded to Hubbuch who started to move the tank forward and up the sand dune. The engine coughed and spluttered like a bronchial old man all the way up the hill.

‘Let’s hope there are not too many of these ahead,’ commented Kummel grimly. He looked at his wristwatch and then switched his attention to the periscope. He heard Hubbuch cursing below as the engine protested. They crested the dune. There was another just ahead but not so high. To his right and left, he saw other tanks similarly engaged. What are we doing, he thought? Madness.

The next set of dunes proved to be the last. Soon they were back on the flat and pushing on against the sand lashing the front of the tank. Manfred was miserable. He could feel sand all over his body and it had already begun to prickle. Beer looked across to Manfred, a ghost of a