Crusader (A Novel of WWII Tank Warfare) by Jack Murray (best finance books of all time TXT) 📕

As they drove away from the airfield, they heard the sound ofgunfire and the crump of eighty-eights. The men in the truck looked at oneanother. A sense of guilt, perhaps? Danny thought about Arthur. He and theremaining tanks would be up against an overwhelming force if yesterday wasanything to go by.

The firing was irregular, however. It seemed as if both sides wererepairing and resupplying themselves. This made Danny feel better. The thought hoveredin the air, however.

‘Doesn’t seem so bad today,’ said Evans. It was if they all wantedto have validation for not being with the others.

This quietened the group again. A reminder that they were escapingfrom a cauldron. Sensing the mood in the truck had become more despondent, thelieutenant turned around and spoke to the men.

‘I know it seems we may be abandoning our comrades at Sidi Rezegh.This is certainly not the case. We can be of more use to them by making anuisance of ourselves like this. We’ll be able to carry the battle to the enemyand when they’ve woken up to what we’re doing, move on. You can’t hit what youcan’t see. And don’t forget, the 7th Armoured are going to besupported by two other armoured brigades. Jerry won’t have it all his own way,mark my words.’

-

The column slowly worked its way along the endless plateau. Mileafter mile of nothingness stretched before them. They were bathed in a lightdrizzle of dust thrown up by the wheels of the trucks. Conversation ceased tobe replaced by ennui. The glitter of the light sand immersed Danny in ahypnotic trance. For an hour he said nothing and simply sat staring at theunyielding barren wasteland which was enveloping them all.

Two hours later they stopped for a brew up and to give thevehicles a chance to cool down. Lieutenant Blair and Sergeant Gray joined therest of the group as they drank some tea with a biscuit. The lieutenant filledthem in on their mission.

‘I’m Blair, good to have you along. I’ve been doing these columnsfor quite a few months now. I haven’t been with this group before. That’s ourcommanding officer over there, Captain Arnold.

A few heads nodded in recognition.

‘I see some of you know him. In simple terms, we need to divertJerry’s attention, and some of his strength, westwards, away from Tobruk. Thiswill give our chaps a better chance of breaking out successfully. The more hethinks we’ve stolen a march on his flank the more likely he is to disperse hisarmour.’

Blair reminded Danny of Lieutenant Turner. Young, public schooland seemingly capable. Captain Arnold came past to introduce himself.

‘Don’t get up,’ were the first words he said to them. ‘For thoseof you that don’t know me, my name is Arnold. Hello Gray. Bully, Fitz, glad tosee you’re still with us. Lieutenant Blair will fill the rest of you in on whatwe’re doing. This is our chance to give the Axis something to think about inplaces where he’s least expecting it. Make no mistake, it will be hard work.We’ve lost many men on these operations in the last year, but we’ve created alot of disruption to the enemy.’

Arnold moved on to the next group drinking tea. After he’d left,Buller signalled to Danny that he would give him rapid overview of the twopounder. Gray joined them over at the gun.

‘You fired one of these before?’ asked Gray.

‘Wait’ll you hear this, sarge,’ said Buller.

Danny’s explained his introduction to the gun had come fromBrigadier Campbell. Gray whistled and smiled.

‘Well, he’s an artillery man so he would know. I’ll leave Bully togive you a quick tour now. You won’t find much difference as a loader. Just getto grips with unloading and loading. Every second counts.’

‘Yes, sarge,’ grinned Danny. Sergeant Gray left the bigLiverpudlian in charge of giving Danny a brief tour of the two pounder gun. Anydemonstration would have to wait until they’d stopped and, most probably, werein action.

-

The column headed off after a few more minutes towards theshimmering haze on the horizon. Vehicle after vehicle rolled over the rocks, thecarpeted ridges, the sun-burned sand and half-buried brush. Each mile tookDanny away from the enemy and closer to his next fight.

He looked around at the men with him. They’d all killed and seenkilling. He was now like them. At the very least he’d killed in yesterday’sengagement. A vague thought the previous evening was now at the forefront ofhis mind.

He felt no remorse.

The death of Phil Lawrence had given birth only to one desire inhis mind. To kill the enemy. The attack on the airfield while he manned the gunbrought forth another overwhelming desire that had nothing to do with revenge.

Survival replaced all other thoughts now. Yesterday, he’d faceddeath time and time again. By rights he should have died like Reed, likeHolmes, like Phil. Perhaps even Arthur, now. Yet here he sat, alive but weariedbeyond imagining; sentient yet stripped of sorrow; impotent yet able to kill.

He removed from his pocket a letter. The paper had crinkled, and greasedfingerprints decorated the edges like a black lipstick. The fragrance had longsince evaporated. Twenty-four hours had passed since he’d last gazed at herwriting. This was the longest he’d gone without reading it. Tears stung hiseyes. For fear that the others would see him he turned his head towards theempty wasteland around him. He held onto the letter for a few minutes thenfolded it up and put it back in his pocket.

The realisation of what it meant to him was all too clear. Theletter not only connected him to her, it connected him to a part of his betterself. A self that would not barter his soul to the brutality that he would encounteras well as inflict.

Whatever forfeit this war demanded from him he would not losethis.

 30

Sciaf Sciuf, twenty-five kilometres south east of Sidi Rezegh,Libya, November 23rd, 1941

‘Are you all right?’ asked Fischer. He stared at the red-rimmedeyes of Manfred and, surprisingly, seemed concerned.

Manfred nodded absently. It was five in the morning and they’dmanaged a few hours of sleep following the capture of the British brigadeheadquarters. A thick layer of fog clung to the