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

man dragging the stricken captain into a slit trench to avoid the tracks of a British tank. The enemy tank resisted the opportunity to gun them down. Instead, it moved on, passing a couple of burned out Panzers. Fischer’s head popped up along with the other crew man and then they were dragging Stiefelmayer out from the trench. Manfred lost sight of them at that point as his sight was straight ahead with limited lateral vision.

‘Slow down,’ ordered Basler. Then he opened the turret hatch wider and shouted down to Fisher.

Manfred returned to his sight while Kiel search frantically to see if there were any other enemy tanks near them. Their position was horribly exposed now.

‘Hurry,’ shouted Basler. Manfred glanced up and then realised he was addressing himself to the men outside. This was a relief. It meant that Fischer was getting onto the tank with the fallen captain.

Moments later Basler ordered them to speed up. Jentz put his foot to the pedal and they jerked backwards. The tank was rocked by an explosion nearby.

‘Can’t you go any faster?’ shouted Basler over the intercom.

‘Not unless I turn around,’ shouted Jentz irritably. The lieutenant knew this but he, along with everyone else, was caught up in the fear of being hit.

‘Move left,’ ordered Basler. ‘Now right.’

As they slalomed backwards. the full horror of the battle was unfolding before Manfred. Dozens of tanks, many still glowing red, had been abandoned. Crewmen from both sides darted between trenches and tanks. It was mayhem. Worryingly, the further they withdrew, the more tanks he could see that were either from the Italian Littorio Battalion or Panzers. The number of destroyed British tanks was clearly much larger but it had come at a price. He could no longer see very far ahead but Kleff kept them informed of the attack building in front. Distant booms spoke of the bombardment that the eight-eights were raining down on the new wave.

But many would get through. This battle was only just beginning.

44

North East of Kidney Ridge, El Alamein: 2nd November 1942

 

It was nearly eight in the morning. Danny glanced down at PG. His hands were on the steering sticks. He was whistling. This was the only sound in the tank aside from the engine idling. Outside, the rest of the 3 RTR formed, standing ready like cavalry before a charge. Thoughts of what lay ahead were unavoidable. The sound of the battle taking place barely a few miles ahead of them had reduced them to silence.

For once there was an honesty in the communications about what they were to face. The words ‘extreme casualties’ had been mentioned. The implication was clear. The defeat of the Afrika Korps was likely to come a great cost. The confidence they felt that victory was now within their grasp in no way allayed the fear at the back of everyone’s mind; this time it could be them.

The radio crackled to life. Sid Gregson listened and then spoke to Benson. Danny heard him say, ‘The attack has reached the Rahman track. They’ve knocked out lots of guns.’

‘Well done to them,’ said Benson. ‘That was the plan.’

At what cost, wondered Danny? They’d sacrificed themselves on the gun line. Danny fought to control his emotions. Not fear this time but sadness for those that had fallen. It could so easily have been them who’d been asked to make the initial, suicidally dangerous, assault. Instead, it had been Wilts and Warwickshire Yeomanry. Any other thoughts were interrupted by Benson. He was standing with his head and chest outside the turret. Over the intercom he said, ‘Make ready.’

Danny tested his traverse for the fiftieth time that morning. It was still working. PG was similarly occupied with the steering sticks. McLeish’s leg was juddering again. Of the crew, Gregson seemed the most at ease. Every so often he would test the internal radio with a rather risqué joke. The laughter usually confirmed that everything was in working order. Andrews remained tight lipped

Benson was lost in another world. Smoking a pipe made someone look more reflective, thought Danny. By comparison, cigarettes seemed like a nervous tic, at least the way soldiers like PG smoked them. Allowances could be made for movie stars, of course. They smoked with a certain elan. However, there was no question Benson and the smoke from his pipe radiated a sense of calm that slowly permeated through the tank bringing with it memories of home, of family and friends. Danny closed his eyes and all at once he was transported back to his kitchen, his father puffing away while reading a newspaper or listening to the radio.

Voices outside the tank grew in number and volume. Somewhere a sergeant-major was shouting orders for it could only be a sergeant-major. What a pair of lungs. Was that a hunting horn in the distance? Danny and a few of the others broke into a grin. How could the Nazis seriously expect to defeat a nation that had men who thought it entirely sensible to carry a hunting horn into battle? Naïve, really, on the part of the enemy.

The noise of the idling engines soon became more full-throated. Radio chatter ceased. The shouts outside the tank grew louder, as did the sound of Danny’s heart. He felt himself tense. The sound of shouting was drowned out by the noise of the engines. Then, they heard the command in their earphones from Benson, ‘PG, Advance.’

The tank lurched forward catching out McLeish, as ever, by surprise. Every time thought Danny with a grin. McLeish rubbed his head and reddened. This was no mean feat for the young, once fair-skinned Scot, who’d turned a rather unattractive pink-red in the North African sun.

The screeching clank of the tanks must have been audible in Tripoli. Benson sat outside the tank which allowed the cold morning air to cool the rising heat inside the turret and hull. The opening of the turret meant the air in the tank was filled with tiny particles. Everyone was