Aftermath

(Source¹)

As the aircraft touched down, Fehrenbach surveyed the damage wrought by the P-40s. It didn't seem too bad at first, but when they got to the taxiway they had taken off from, he could see at least three burning Stukas and a couple that had gone off into the rocks and dirt lining the sides of the airfield. There was also a burning fuel bowser, which even he knew might be critical. Fuel was always at a premium in the desert.

"It's hard to believe that just a few enemy aircraft did this much damage." Wolfram said over the intercom.

Wolfram saw a ground crewman directing him where to park his aircraft, it was inside one of the partially constructed sandbag revetments. Once the aircraft was inside, he chopped the throttle and turned off the fuel cock.

As he often did after a mission, he sat there, watching the propeller slowly come to a stop, letting his mind wander over the events of the past few minutes. When he looked at his wristwatch, he realized that from the time they had begun to taxi until now was slightly over 45 minutes. It felt much longer.

He pulled back the cockpit hood, the first thing he noticed was the smell of burning things - fuel, rubber, aluminum, human flesh. He had smelled it all before and he was still not used to it.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned around suddenly, startling his ground crew chief, Gefreiter Hollenbeck. "Sorry Klaus, you startled me."

"The Gruppenkommandeur² wants all aircrew in the maintenance tent in thirty minutes. Word is, we're moving again."

"Forwards? Back to Sicily?"

"Sorry Ernst, I don't know, Göring³ no longer confides in me."

Wolfram couldn't help but grin as Hollenbeck helped him with his straps, "Sorry old boy, but you've quite a mess to clean up in the gunner's seat."

But Fehrenbach had already climbed out of his position and he told Hollenbeck, "I'll clean it up, I puked, not you."

"It's all right kid, you're aircrew, you're going to be busy over the next hour or so, when we service your bird, we'll clean it up as well. Next time, be careful what you eat for breakfast, certain foods ..."

Fehrenbach smiled, "Got it, Danke, Herr Gefreiter."

"Klaus out here, call me Gefreiter in the mess, or if the big shots are around, out here, we're all one happy family."

Fehrenbach smiled, this operational thing wasn't bad, well, when the enemy wasn't trying to kill you it wasn't too bad.

A Scottish trench mortar crew marching to a firing position, Egypt, 4 June 1940.
(Source)

Krige came to a small dune, he swore he could smell the sea⁴ on the wind. He also heard vehicular traffic, so he crouched down as he approached the top of the dune. He went flat when he saw a truck pulled over with a group of infantry around it. As everyone in the desert seemed to prefer the same khaki colored clothing, it was tough to tell at a distance who was who.

The he noticed the very typical British helmet, so he slowly stood up.

"Hey chaps, glad I found you!" Krige advanced slowly, waving his arms and speaking English.

One of the infantrymen, a sergeant, turned and aimed his Lee-Enfield at Krige. "'Old it right there, mate!"

Krige, puzzled, did as he was told.

"Get yer 'ands up, ye Jerry bastid."

As the men advanced towards him, Krige realized that his flying kit, khaki colored, flying helmet, life vest, probably didn't look much different from what the German and Italian aircrews wore. He offered, "I'm South African lads, crashed my kite back there in the desert." He gestured behind him as he said that.

For his troubles he was poked in the belly with the muzzle of the sergeant's rifle. "'Old still, ye Jerry bastid."

Krige flushed, he was most emphatically not German, but his accent made him sound foreign to these men, who from their chatter he surmised were Australians. So he tried another approach.

"Look cobber, I've had a long walk, I could use a lager and a bath. I tell you, I'm an Allied pilot, South African, we speak Afrikaans and English."

"Well, innit that bloody amusing, 'ey lads?" The sergeant laughed as he turned to his men.

"Sergeant!"

Krige breathed a sigh of relief when he heard the shout of what could only be an officer.

"Sah!" All of the infantrymen snapped to attention, though the sergeant kept his eyes on Krige.

"What have we got here, Sergeant Masterson?

"Jerry pilot, Sir. claims he's South African, but he sounds like a Jerry."

"Quite."

Turning to Krige, the officer asked, "Waar kom jy vandaan?⁵"

Krige smiled and said, in English, "I'm from Pietermaritzburg, Sir."

"Very good, do you need a lift?"

"Yes Sir, I was on a raid this morning which shot up a Stuka base near Derna, got surprised and had to put my aircraft down on a salt flat, not too far from here."

"Right, Sergeant Masterson, let's load this lad up and take him down to Tobruk," Turning to Krige he said, "Good enough for you?"

"Beats walking, Sir. And thanks."

The assembled aircrew all snapped to attention when the Gruppenkommandeur, Major Artur Klemenz, an Austrian, entered the tent.

"At ease boys, I've got good news, and I've got bad news."

A groan issued from the crowd.

"The good news is we're going back to Sicily where we'll get replacement aircraft and crews. We should be there for at least two months. Generalfeldmarschall Rommel has been held up by logistics and the Italian High Command, for the moment. He expects reinforcements over the next few months."

A number of smiles were seen in the crowd at that news.

"Now the bad news is that we're going to hit a British convoy on the way to Sicily, then we'll be flying maritime missions and missions against Malta while we build back up again. I expect we'll be back here, in the desert, which I know you all love," groans from the crowd, "by summer."

"We have a group of transports flying in to transport equipment and ground personnel, along with those aircrew who have no aircraft, to Sicily. Those will have an escort of Me 109s. I expect that our remaining aircraft attacking the convoy will keep the British busy."

"Full briefing at 1400, headquarters wants us in the air by 1700. The convoy is trying to sneak into Tobruk at dusk. We shall see they receive a warm reception. Staffelkapitäne⁶, stick around after this meeting, we need to juggle some of the flights."

As they walked back to their aircraft, Fehrenbach asked, "What's Sicily like, Ernst?"

"It's nice, the food is good, the wine is better."

"And the women?"

"Ah, you need to be careful there, Junge. Sicilian families are very protective of their womenfolk. But the women are amazing. You'll see. But their fathers and brothers? As dangerous as a Spitfire or Hurricane on your tail."

"I see."

"A question Uwe. Where are you from?"

"The Rhineland, just outside Köln."

"Catholic?"

"Aber natürlich."

"So are the Sicilians, play your cards right ..."

As they prepared their aircraft for the bombing raid on the convoy, then the flight to Sicily, Fehrenbach couldn't stop grinning.

Hollenbeck noticed and took Wolfram aside, "Why'd you get the boy's hopes up, Ernst? He might not live long enough to get to Sicily, many of us might not."

Wolfram shook his head, "For now he's got something to look forward to, something to live for. Should I take that away from him, Klaus?"

"You're right. Now make me feel better, I'll be riding in a damn Tante Ju⁷. Hanging out there for any Tommy fighter pilot with a machine gun to send into the sea."

Wolfram shook his head, "Klaus, you worry too much. You sound like my mother."

Hollenbeck just looked at the pilot, then said, "You be f**king careful out there, bring my crate home in one piece, neh?"

"I will, Klaus, if it's in my power, I will. After all, young Fehrenbach needs to experience Sicily before he dies, yes?"

¹ Go read the article at that source, very interesting.

² Group Commander, this was a position title, not a rank. Each Luftwaffe wing (Geschwader- commanded by a Geschwaderkommodore) had three or more Gruppen (groups- each commanded by a Gruppenkommandeur), within each Gruppe there were three to four Staffeln (squadrons- each commanded by a Staffelkapitän). A Staffel had nine to twelve aircraft assigned.

³ Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring, chief of the Luftwaffe.

⁴ Most landsmen, when near the coast think that what they are smelling is the sea, it's actually the smell of the land beside the sea, especially the marshes and other places along the coast. Sailors say that it's the smell of the land. So I've been told.

⁵ Where are you from? (Afrikaans)

⁶ Squadron commanders

⁷ German nickname for the Ju 52 transport. "Aunt Ju," Ju for Junkers.

The New Kid

(Source)

Flieger Uwe Fehrenbach climbed out of the captured British car the squadron used to haul aircrew from the dispersal hut to the aircraft parking area. He noticed that ground crewmen were busy building sand-bagged revetments around each aircraft. He had asked about that, the crusty old Feldwebel who ferried the crews back and forth had a ready answer.

"The Tommies are getting a lot more active what with the Amis in the war now, they're getting all sorts of new kit. The Amis aren't ready to fight, not when they can give the Tommies stuff and let them do the dying."

Fehrenbach wasn't sure what the old Unteroffizier was talking about, but as they drove past two wrecked aircraft (one Stuka and one Ju 52 transport), he realized that how those aircraft got destroyed, and who destroyed them, was rather immaterial. All he knew was that he was assigned to a Stuka as the gunner, his pilot was a long time veteran, and he was in the African desert, whether he liked it or not.

"Here you go, Junge. Hals-und beinbruch!¹"

Fehrenbach got out of the car, grabbed his gear and gave the driver a puzzled look as that man drove off, laughing. He then turned and walked towards the aircraft, noting that there was a man, smoking a cigarette and wearing a pith helmet, leaning against the starboard wing, giving him a hard-eyed stare.

"Excuse me, have you seen a Feldwebel Wolfram around?"

"Only when I look in the mirror, you must be Fehrenbach." The man tossed his cigarette to the ground, where he ground it into the dirt with the heel of his flying boot, then walked to Fehrenbach, his hand extended.

Fehrenbach snapped to attention when he realized he was talking to a non-commissioned officer. "Flieger Uwe Fehrenbach, Herr Feldwebel, reporting for duty!"

Wolfram smiled, then said, "At ease, Junge, you're not at the training camp anymore" His hand was still extended.

Fehrenbach, somewhat flustered, tried to put his flying kit down, only to manage to dump it unceremoniously into the dirt, then hurriedly took Wolfram's hand. "Sehr angenehm, Herr Feldwebel.²"

"Sorry, Sir, let me get that ..."

"It's alright lad, let me show you around the aircraft, you have seen a Stuka before, yes?"

"Not this close, Herr Feldwebel."

Wolfram shook his head, some of the new recruits they were getting were obviously being rushed through training. No doubt all the flyable Ju 87s were at the front. So the Luftwaffe had to make due with other methods of training their gunners.

"What did you train on?"

"The He 111, Herr ..."

"Enough with the rank, Junge, my name's Ernst. If there are officers around, sure, we'll use our ranks, but out here, and in the air, we need to trust each other. First names only, got it, Uwe?"

"Aber natürlich, Herr ... I mean Ernst."

Wolfram chuckled and said, "Let's get you settled in, we're taking off in an hour or so, target is still socked in by blowing sand. It usually clears up fairly quickly, unless it doesn't."

To assuage Fehrenbach's puzzled look, Wolfram said, "The desert, it's fickle, and it wants to kill you, but if you respect it, well, let's just say we get a bit of wind now and again, it kicks up the sand. Especially along the coast. Only in the big sandstorms does it last for longer than an hour or so. Those are called khamsin, which is an Arab word for fifty. Normally those occur over a fifty day period in the spring, we're not there yet, but we still get winds off the Med which tends to blur the air, if you get what I mean."

Fehrenbach clearly did not get it, but figured that he eventually would. If he lived long enough that is, he knew of Stuka crew losses over Britain. He had applied for the Ju 88, got Ju 87s instead. Typical of his luck, he supposed.

Sergeant Pilot Christiaan Krige listened intently as the flight commander briefed them on the day's target. They wouldn't be flying top cover today, they were detailed to hit a German base not far from the front lines, which were moving daily. Krige had flown ground attack missions before, a nasty business if you asked him.

"So that's it lads, we come in from the sea, hit the Jerries as they're arming up, we hope, then head back home. All nice and neat, shouldn't have any problem with ack-ack, the gunners will be looking to the east, not the north. At least we hope so, right?"

Though the captain smiled when he said that, he only received a few nervous chuckles from the assembled pilots. German anti-aircraft fire was nothing to sneeze at, and the men knew it. The captain was new to this theater and hadn't flown a mission yet.

Krige smirked and thought, he'll learn or he'll die. Maybe both. As for him, he'd prefer to keep Mama Krige's boy alive a little longer.

Mediterranean coast of Libya
(Source)

The flight of South African p-40s came in from the sea. They were low, low enough that as they crossed the coast, Krige could see a herd of goats scurrying out of their path, the goatherd furious and shaking his fist at the South African aircraft. It would take some time to gather those frightened beasts up again.

Krige was watching his flight lead, they were now flying in a formation similar to what the Germans used, a flight of four spread out like the fingers of one's hand, not the three ship Vic of the pre-war years. He was flying off Blue Lead's right wing, the number two position. As he watched, he saw Flight Lieutenant Pietersen pump his fist then thrust it to his front.

On that signal the other aircraft slid out to put more distance between each aircraft, allowing the flight to cover more area. Within moments, there was the German base just outside Derna, and they were in luck, there was at least a squadron of Ju 87s in the process of launching a strike.

"Ernst! Enemy aircraft coming in!" Fehrenbach had done well in the aircraft recognition portion of his training, he recognized the P-40s almost as soon as they came in sight.

"Scheiße!" was the only response Wolfram offered as he began to accelerate. Though they were still on the designated taxiway, it wasn't much different than the actual runway. He had plenty of room to take off and he'd rather take his chances in the air than on the ground.

Not a hundred meters ahead of him was Gottfried's aircraft, he had to pull back on the throttle as the man was weaving all over the taxiway. What was he thinking?

Krige couldn't believe his luck, when he popped up over the slight ridge between the sea and the base he saw that he was lined up on a taxiway, which was packed with taxiing aircraft. He hardly had to aim at all.

He triggered his guns and saw one of the bent winged birds suddenly collapse as its left main gear was hit. The bird slewed off the runway and burst into flames. He saw tracers streaking past his aircraft now, so he started to jink.

Though it tended to throw his aim off, he triggered his guns again, just a short 2 second burst. Another Stuka on the taxiway suddenly jerked to the right as there was now a dead hand on the controls.

As he prepared to pull off and clear the area, he saw an anti-aircraft gun just ahead, mounted on some sort of vehicle. There he was, there it was, so he fired another short burst.

As he flashed over the ack-ack vehicle he had the joy of seeing its crew scatter, those that were still capable of moving anyway. He had glimpsed at least two men slumped over the gun.

"Hang on, Junge! Things are about to get rough!"

As he said that, loud enough that Fehrenbach heard him over the noise of the engine, he slammed the throttle all the way forward. Pulling back on the stick he just barely cleared the burning wreckage of Von Kleppe's aircraft.

He was hunched over in the cockpit, as if that would save him if some Tommy got him under his guns. But it was a natural instinct to do that. Make yourself as small as possible, then just fly the aircraft.

Which he did. He stayed low, the Stuka wasn't much of a threat in an air combat role, but what choice did he have?

As he cleared the perimeter of the airfield, still no more than 50 meters above the undulating desert floor, he pulled up and released his bombs at the same time, sending them on an arc into the empty desert.

Rolling level and pushing the nose forward again, he felt his bird accelerate. Off his left shoulder, he could see clouds of smoke rising from the base.

"Uwe! You still with me?"

"Jawohl, Ernst, though my breakfast is all over the place back here!"

"Sorry, Junge. See any Indianer?³"

"There's nothing back here, no, wait, there's something, yes, two aircraft coming our way. I don't think they see us!"

"How's your oil pressure, Stiaan?"

Krige was trying to guess the extent of the damage to Sergeant Van Heerdens' aircraft. Other than a thin trail of black smoke coming from the engine cowling, he saw nothing else. Until he let his aircraft slide back some.

The elevators on Van Heerdens' P-40 were shot to hell. He had passed nearby the ack-ack gun which Krige had shot up, they had managed to put at least one 20 mm round into Van Heerdens' engine and, from the look of it, had shot up the tail of his aircraft.

"Oil pressure is dropping, oil temperature is climbing, I think I took a hit in the oil system. Controllability is sloppy. I can't really climb or dive, the elevators feel like they're not there."

Krige thought for a moment, if Van Heerdens cut his throttle, he could coast in and land his crippled aircraft, maybe. Scanning ahead, Krige saw a long strip of land, seemingly flat, maybe two miles ahead.

"Stiaan, do you see that flat stretch ahead?"

"Ja⁴, I see it. Are we near the lines?" Van Heerdens didn't fancy spending the remainder of the war as a German prisoner.

"I don't know, might be, things are pretty fluid right now. If I were you, I'd set her down before she quits on you."

Krige swore he heard a sigh over the R/T, then he was jolted back to reality when tracers began to hit Van Heerdens' aircraft.

Fehrenbach triggered his gun as the enemy plane flew into his sights. He could barely miss at this range. He could see impacts all over the Kittyhawk. Before he could adjust his aim, the other P-40 had flashed past them.

"Stiaan, do you hear me?"

Krige couldn't fathom what had just happened, the tracers had come from in front of them, not from behind. Was there an ack-ack battery down there?

As he thought this, he throttled up, he was going to make a wide turn then go back. Whatever had riddled Van Heerdens' aircraft was probably still there!

Wolfram couldn't believe his eyes as an enemy P-40 flashed overhead, then settled directly in front of him. He reacted quickly and triggered his dual MG 17s, one mounted in each of the Stuka's wings. He had used them to strafe but had never used them against an aerial target. He saw the aircraft ahead stagger, then begin to fall.

"Keep your eyes open Junge, we're heading home, if there's anything left. By the way, nice shooting!"

Krige winced as he ran his right hand down his left arm. He had felt something like a hot poker score his forearm, he was hit, as was his aircraft.

Looking in his rear view mirror, he felt nauseated,

"I've just been shot down by a f**king Stuka!" He screamed at the world.

Within minutes he had managed to bring his dying Kittyhawk down on that level area he had seen from the air. Where he had hoped his friend Van Heerdens could have put down.

He had tried two more times to raise the other pilot on the R/T, in vain. As his aircraft bumped and rolled, the right gear snapped off. ending his landing abruptly.

He quickly cleared the wreckage and ran away from it, unsure how badly shot up it was. As he turned, he heard a "wumpff" and sadly watched as fire spread over the airframe. I guess she was hit pretty bad, he thought.

Looking to the west, he saw a column of black smoke along his flight path. No doubt that was Van Heerdens' aircraft. He began to wonder if his friend had made it out in time⁵.

Shaking his head, he began to walk towards where he assumed the coast was. He'd rather be a prisoner of war than die in this merciless desert.

¹ "Break a leg. (Literally "Break your neck and a leg," it being bad luck to wish someone good luck in the Luftwaffe.)

² Very pleased (to meet you) or delighted (to meet you).

³ Luftwaffe pilots referred to hostile fighters as "Indianer," Indians. (The North American kind.)

⁴ "Yes" in Afrikaans is the same as in German.

⁵ He did not, Fehrenbach's first burst had killed him instantly.

Reequipping, Refueling, and Rest

(Source)

"Hey Corp, what's all this junk behind your position?" Private Ian Sullivan was digging around through the interior of the tank. This was his first look inside. Behind the 75 mm gun position there was a lot of loose kit underneath a tarp. Though he was new to the tank business, even he knew that seldom was space wasted inside one of these expensive fighting vehicles.

McTavish poked his head inside the hatch next to the 75, "Just spare odds and ends, I 'spose, I ain't had a chance tae really dig into her yet."

At that moment, their new lieutenant was walking by, he was busy trying to get his new platoon organized and moving. So far he had three crews and was expecting one more. He had heard McTavish and wondered what "odds and ends" he was talking about.

"Corporal."

"Sah!"

Lieutenant Wellesley leaned into the hatch, then turned to McTavish, "Get that rubbish out of there. You're blocking access to the loader's seat and your ammunition stowage."

"I get a loader?" McTavish asked, somewhat puzzled.

"What, d'ye think the Yanks would waste space inside a tank? You've never crewed one of these, have you?"

"Nae, Sir, first time."

Wellesley shook his head, "I've got a manual for the beast, I'll get you one. Where's your tank commander?"

As he said that O'Connell came around the rear of the vehicle, "Right here, Sir."

"Ah yes, once you get your lads sorted, and get that mess out of your tank, come over to the gate. We'll be moving first thing in the morning. I'm expecting another crew shortly."

"Sir!"

"Get cracking lads, the Huns are coming this way."

(Source)

The fuel trucks had come up shortly after the sun had set. Hoffmeister and his crew busied themselves getting their own Panzer refueled, then Hoffmeister had seen to the rest of the platoon, telling his own crew to prepare their rations.

As he walked over to Unteroffizier Baumann's Panzer, he could feel the temperature start to drop. It didn't take long for that to happen after the sun went down. For the moment he let the cooler air wash over him, it felt good after the heat of the day.

Baumann climbed down off of his vehicle and met Hoffmeister, "So Willi, are we moving on tomorrow?"

"No, we're waiting for the Italians, from what I understand. Apparently the Commando Supremo in Rome has had a change of heart about supporting us. Benghazi fell quickly and the English don't seem to have much between here and the Egyptian border."

Baumann shook his head, "We never even came close to seizing Tobruk last year, we need it, Benghazi is a terrible port."

"Ah, so you're a sailor now?" Hoffmeister scoffed.

"You may laugh, Willi. Before the war I was a merchant seaman for a Greek line. We sailed these waters. I know every port between Tripoli and Haifa."

"I didn't know that Ferdinand. Were you drafted?"

"In '38, just in time to roll into Austria. Well, our Panzer broke down, we went into Vienna by truck. Still rolling though."

"That it is."

Hoffmeister reached into his tunic for a cigar, offering one to Baumann as he searched for his matches.

"That stuff will kill you, Willi." Baumann waved off the offer of a cigar.

"Before the English get a chance?"

Baumann laughed, "Probably not."

Willi smiled as he lit his cigar, "Gute Nacht, Ferdinand."

Baumann nodded as he turned to rejoin his own crew, "Schlaf Gut, Willi. Bis Morgen.¹"

Bonus content, inside the M3 Grant

¹ Sleep well, Willi. Until morning. (Can also be translated, "Until tomorrow.")

Reunion

Grant tanks of 5th Royal Tank Regiment on the move in the Western Desert, 17 February 1942.
(Source)

Sergeant O'Connell was glad to be off the truck, he was even more pleased to discover that he and the lads were getting a new tank, an American model from what he understood. At the moment they were waiting for a vehicle to take them over to the makeshift tank depot outside Sidi Barrani.

(Source)

"So Sarge, what sort of crate are we getting, I heard something about it being a Yank machine? Are they in the war now?" Will O'Shea had relatives in America. They gave him nothing but grief in their letters for being in the "English" army. They were all fervent republicans. He often thought that if they were that bleeding passionate about it, they should have stayed in Ireland. In general, he had a low opinion of Americans.

"It's called an M3 Grant, named after a general in their Civil War. Supposedly it has a 75 mm gun, what's more, it can fire high explosive." O'Connell didn't tell them that the big gun was mounted in a sponson. The main gun, in the turret, was a 37 mm, didn't have the same punch as their old 2-pounder.¹ It was equipped with HE, but from what he'd been told, the round wasn't that effective against infantry. His stance was, "Better'n no HE at all!"

An open-topped Humber pulled up and the driver shouted out, "You chaps need a lift to the tank depot?"

"Right-o, let's go lads!" O'Connell climbed aboard last.

After a 30-minute drive they came up to the "tank depot," which consisted of a couple of maintenance tents, two Bedfords, and what appeared to be twelve tanks. All rather large with a small turret. The main gun was on the other side from where they dismounted.

A sergeant with a clipboard met them at the "gate" (which was simply an opening between the two tents), "You lads with 5 Royal Tanks?"

After checking his list and a short conversation with O'Connell, the sergeant pointed them to a tank sitting by itself. "That's yours right there, T333505. There's a chap working on it, says he's a member of your crew, just got out of hospital."

As they walked over, O'Connell saw a man slide into a hatch on the vehicle. Something about him seemed eerily familiar. As he turned to his crew, about to order them to mount up, the man popped out of the hatch.

"'Bout bloody time, ye daft Irishmen showed up. I cannae drive this bloody thing and man the fecking gun at the same time."

The crew sprinted towards the small Scotsman as he dropped to the ground. It was McTavish, their old gunner².

Panzer 413 lurched to a stop just to the northeast of Benghazi. The sun had gone down moments before and the shadows were gathering. Hoffmeister suspected that they were out of fuel. He'd reported his fuel state about 30 minutes before, but battalion had ordered them to press on. The fuel trucks would catch up when they could.

"Wir haben kein Benzin mehr!³" Fritz Weber reported over the intercom.

"I suspected as much." Hoffmeister answered. "Get out and stretch your legs boys, we might be here a while."

The other tanks in the platoon had halted when he did, over the radio he was going to order them to assume a defensive posture, but his crews knew their business. Most of them were probably running on fumes by now. But they formed up in line abreast, guns facing east, towards where the British were still running down the coast road.

Benghazi was theirs, again. But for the moment they were stopped, logistics were holding them back. Again.

Gefreiter Hans Decker woke up, groggy and in some pain. He looked around, unsure of his surroundings. The last thing he remembered was sitting at his gunner's station soaked in blood, shivering in the desert heat, and hearing his pilot asking if he was going to be all right.

He had passed out shortly after that, his ribs felt bruised, his mouth was dry as a bone, and his right foot itched. He needed to scratch that itch, but he was too groggy to really move any part of his body. He felt detached somehow, yet present at the same time.

He opened his eyes and blinked rapidly, he heard a voice ...

"Oberstabsarzt⁴ Wagner! Decker is awake."

Decker turned towards the voice, he saw an older man, a medical orderly of some sort, he guessed. As he tried to puzzle things out, he felt a hand touch his wrist.

"Ah, I see you're awake Gefreiter. Hopefully your nap was refreshing."

The staff surgeon was in uniform, from what Decker could see, the man had served in the Great War, he had an Iron Cross 1st Class from 1914 pinned to his tunic. He also had a 1914 wound badge, in silver⁵, which made Decker wonder, how did this man get wounded in the first war?

The doctor grinned, "I notice you're 'admiring' my decorations. I was an infantryman in the first war. I didn't become a doctor until after that war. Now rest easy for a moment."

The doctor held Decker's wrist while looking at his watch, he nodded. "Good pulse, you're young and healthy, your recovery should be fine. It's not many who can ..."

Decker remembered, in a panic he sat up, there, at the bottom of the bed he saw ...

He still had both legs.

"So this beast has crew of six?" Fitzhugh asked as he studied the tank's interior. He was sitting in the gunner's seat in the turret, McTavish was seated next to the 75 mm gun.

"The other variant, the Lee, has a crew of seven. In this beast I get to load and fire this gun." McTavish patted the breech of the 75.

Shaking his head, McTavish said, "And you get a loader for the popgun. There's nae justice in the world, laddie."

O'Connell let the men blather on for a few more minutes as he familiarized himself with the commander's position. This damn thing sat up very high, that gun in the sponson, though of a useful caliber, couldn't be used when they were hull down. This would take some getting used to.

"All right lads, I suppose we should be getting orders shortly, when we do ..."

O'Connell heard someone rapping on the steel of the turret, "Anyone home?"

Popping his head out, he looked into the eyes of a very young lieutenant. "Sir?"

"Hullo, I'm Wellesley, your new platoon commander, you must be Sar'nt O'Connell."

"Yes Sir, yes, I am. Have we got orders, Sir?"

"Why yes, yes we do, we're to move up to Bardia. The brigade is reforming there, I reckon we'll push on to Tobruk after that, relieve the garrison and all that."

O'Connell had hoped to have a few days to work out the ways this tank could be used in combat. Looks like we'll be learning on the job, he thought to himself. But at the very least, it was good to have McTavish back. Damned good.

¹ The 37 mm gun on the Grant fired a shell weighing less than a pound and a half.

² Last seen in Riposte in the Desert.

³ We're out of petrol.

⁴ Senior staff surgeon, equivalent to a Major.

⁵ The silver grade was awarded for three or four wounds suffered in action.

Air Support

Ju 87 Stukas over the desert
(Source)

Newly promoted Gefreiter Hans Decker was bitching over the intercom to his pilot, Feldwebel Ernst Wolfram. "Why in the name of all that is Holy did they move us to North Africa. Blisteringly hot during the day, cold as a witch's tit at night, and more verdammte flies than I've ever seen in my entire life!"

Wolfram shook his head, if Decker wasn't complaining, he'd be worried, but now wasn't the time. They were 2000 meters above the desert floor and were expecting to come up on an English truck convoy at any minute.

"Halt die Klappe¹, Hans. Now is not the time."

From the terse tone of his pilot's voice, Decker could tell that he was nervous. With good reason, though they had yet to encounter any Spitfires in the desert, Hurricanes were plentiful, as were the American built P-40s which the South Africans were flying out of Tobruk.

The 109 pilots weren't impressed by the P-40, but then again, they weren't flying the Ju 87. An aircraft so ill-suited for air-to-air combat that they had been withdrawn from the Battle of Britain. Wolfram and Decker had survived that fight and were relieved to be sent to Sicily, as opposed to Russia.

Now they were in North Africa, a large detachment of their Stukageschwader² had been sent over to the desert to support Rommel's latest thrust east, they had traded the easy living in Italy for the harsh conditions of Libya. Decker didn't miss the combat over Malta, which was growing more costly with each passing day, but the British had yet to come up in strength to oppose them over Libya. As they got closer to Egypt, he expected that that would change.

The intel briefing that morning had warned them that things might be changing as the desert army drove on Tobruk. The British were falling back in some disarray, it looked like they might not make a stand at Tobruk, but more fighters were coming up to oppose the bombers. Older aircraft yes, but a Stuka was easy meat for any halfway decent pilot in a fighter.

"Penguin Lead, Penguin Three, dust cloud, eleven o'clock." Decker heard over the radio. If it was the truck convoy they were looking for, there were bound to be enemy fighters in the area.

Ian Sullivan was taking his turn on the Vickers machine gun which had been jury-rigged atop a Bedford lorry. It was hot, the dust was making it hard to see, and they were expecting air attacks along this section of the coast road. He saw something, he looked, looked again, then shouted out ...

"Stukas! At our five o'clock position!"

Alan Caddick, who was driving the truck loaded with wounded, glanced over at his tank commander, Sergeant Teddy O'Connell, for instructions.

"Keep 'er steady Alan, there's no way off this bloody road except into the desert. If the chap ahead speeds up, you speed up."

O'Connell was furious that there had been no replacement tanks at Tobruk, they'd been ordered all the way back to Alex.³ His crew had been split between this truck and the one behind initially, but at the first stop for fuel, he'd got all his lads onto this truck. "Sod the Army if it thinks they're going to split us up." had been his reason to the convoy commander. That man, a major with a Highland regiment, had readily agreed, he seemed a decent sort.

O'Connell felt the lorry lurch ahead as Caddick increased speed, the chap in front was accelerating, so must they. A second later, he heard Sullivan's Vickers open fire.

Wolfram's section had been detailed to hit the head of the column, as the aircraft tipped into its dive, he heard Decker call out, "The guys behind us are getting jumped, looks like those P-40s intel told us about!"

 As the enemy were ignoring them, for the moment, Wolfram concentrated on his dive. A number of crews had complained about the automatic dive recovery system lately, it was something Wolfram hadn't used since training. He didn't plan on utilizing that system any time soon, he had a deep distrust of anything "automatic." He knew his bird better than any technical contraption.

As his bombs fell free (he had a 250-kg bomb under the belly and a 50-kg bomb under each wing), he began his pullout. Grunting, he felt his vision start to fade around the edges, but once they were level, it cleared quickly. Then he nearly jumped out of his seat as Decker's gun began to hammer behind him.

Sergeant Pilot Christiaan Krige swore as he triggered the guns of his Kittyhawk, as his rounds went high over the Stuka to his front, the rounds of his intended prey's gunner slammed into the nose of his aircraft. He could feel that he was losing power. a glance at his oil pressure gauge told him why.

"Blue Lead, Blue Three, I've been tagged. Breaking away!"

As oil began to spatter his windscreen, he began to look for a spot to set his aircraft down. Things were going to hell much quicker than he cared for.

As Wolfram rejoined with the rest of his section, one of whom was missing, he heard nothing from his gunner. As he scanned the skies, looking for fighters, he saw a flight of four aircraft joining above, from their tail up posture, he could tell they were Me-109s.

"Hans, friendlies at six high, do you see them?"

Silence.

"Hans?"

A soft moan over the intercom, "Ernst, we need to land."

Knowing that the nearest base was over a hundred kilometers to the west, he began looking for a spot on the coastal road. "Penguin Lead, Four, I need to land, now!"

The voice of Hauptmann Wild came back, "Damage, injuries?"

"Injuries."

After a long moment, Wild came back. "Dust column about twenty kilometers west, that's the Afrika Korps, try and set down near them. See you back at base, good luck."

"Stay with me, Hans, I'm going to put the crate down soon."

In the rear seat, Decker was starting to shiver, he knew that without medical attention he would be dead, and soon.

"Herr Feldwebel, is that a Stuka ahead?" Oberpanzerschütze Schumacher was riding outside of his position in one of the side turret hatches. He saw something coming in low to their front, from the gull-winged shape, it had to be a Stuka.

Hoffmeister looked up, "It is, what the ..."

The aircraft set down on the road, bouncing once or twice before the tail settled as the pilot throttled back. When the dust had settled, Hoffmeister saw the pilot scramble out of his cockpit and frantically began pulling open the gunner's hood. He had a sick feeling.

"Fritz get us up to that aircraft fast as you can." Then on the radio he transmitted, "Need a Sanitäter up front, quickly!"

As the Panzer rolled to a stop, not ten meters from the aircraft, Hoffmeister yelled, "Give me the first aid kit."

After Krebs had handed it up, Hoffmeister ran to the aircraft and looked for how to climb up on the wing.

"Throw me the kit!" as Wolfram caught the first aid kit he pointed to the trailing edge of the aircraft. The Panzer crewman saw the boarding step on the fuselage and immediately figured out what it was for. Wolfram by then had turned his attention to his wounded gunner.

It looked bad, Decker's right leg was soaked in blood. Checking for a pulse, Decker shifted in his seat.

"I never figured you for one to try and cop a feel from a wounded comrade, Ernst." Decker grinned weakly as he said that.

Taking a breath, Decker said, "I managed to get a tourniquet on the leg, hard to see in all that mess, but I think the bleeding has stopped."

Moments later, Wolfram heard a brusque voice order, "Move!"

He stepped back and let the army medic through. The man checked everything out then turned and said, "You probably saved your gunner's life with that tourniquet. Good job, now we need to get him out of that seat, gently."

Wolfram, as he assisted the medic, said, "He put that on himself, I didn't do it."

The medic shook his head, "Your man has balls, I'll give him that. Gently, gently ...," the medic had the Panzer crewman and the Stuka pilot helping him. Moments later they had Decker on the ground.

Checking the tourniquet and the wound, the medic turned to the man who had driven him up to the head of the column in a Kübelwagen. "We need to get him back to the surgeon now, we might yet save this leg."

As the small car and its wounded burden sped back the way it had came, Wolfram looked at the Panzer crewman, extending his hand, "Wolfram, Ernst Wolfram, Stukageschwader Three."

Clasping the pilot's hand, Hoffmeister responded, "Hoffmeister, Willi, 2st Panzer. Do you need a lift?"

"No, I think I can get airborne from here, just block the road for me."

Gesturing back at the stopped column, Hoffmeister said, "You've already done that."

Wolfram chuckled, "I guess I should get out of the Army's way then."

As the big aircraft got into the air, Hoffmeister shook his head. "Hopefully, that gunner will be okay."

Weber spoke up, "It's even money he has to have that leg off. Seen it before."

"Come on, show's over, let's go hunting. The English won't wait for us!" Hoffmeister ordered, something odd in his voice.

As Panzer 413 trundled off down the coast road, the rest of the column fell in behind. Some twenty kilometers ahead, O'Connell's truck was now the lead vehicle in the convoy, Wolfram's bombs had destroyed five trucks at the front of the column.

"Even if we stay ahead of the Jerries, we might have nothing left by the time we get to Alex." O'Connell said to Caddick.

Caddick nodded towards the desert, three columns of smoke marked the funeral pyres of six German airman, brought down by South African fighters. "Will they run out of aircraft before we run out of trucks, I wonder."

O'Connell looked out at the smoke and said, "Sod them, sod all the bloody Huns."

¹ Shut up.

² Dive bomber wing

³ Alexandria in Egypt

Passing the Lines

Captured Italian tank

© IWM (E 2138)

"How are we going to get this crate through the lines, boss?" Will O'Shea asked of his tank commander. They were some miles from where they thought the army was, they needed to come up with some way of getting home. They were all sitting in the shade at the side of the vehicle. The inside of the crate was like an oven.

Sergeant O'Connell thought a bit before answering. Before he could do so, Private Caddick chimed in, "Well, if we had paint we could maybe paint a Union Flag somewhere."

The rest of the crew just looked at him.

Fitzhugh smirked and said, "Too right mate, and we had some extra steel and the like we could disguise the crate as a bleedin' Matilda."

Caddick blushed, "It's just a thought, Corp, no need to get vicious."

Fitzhugh bristled then stopped when O'Connell gave him a stern look. The entire crew was tired, stressed, and anxious to rejoin their unit.

"You might be on to something, Alan." O'Connell nodded at Caddick. Leaning over he drew something in the sand.

"Did I see a tin of grease down by your position, Ian?" Sullivan was the bow gunner in their regular tank, so that's where he was sitting. The Italian tank only had a four man crew, everyone sat in their regular positions except for O'Shea, he swapped out with Fitzhugh, the Italian tank's main gun only had a gunner and no separate loader. So O'Connell had one of them ride outside the tank, the other inside.

Now they all looked at what O'Connell had scratched in the dirt.

"What is that?" Fitzhugh thought the drawing rather crude, but it reminded him of something, before he could say another word, Caddick spoke.

"It's a desert rat! That could work!"

"Use the grease to paint it on the tarp, drape the tarp over the front of the crate, it just might work." Fitzhugh slapped Caddick on the back, "How are you with a brush, laddie?"

The final product bore a reasonable resemblance to 7th Armoured's jerboa insignia. With that and the tarp disguising the M13/40's turret and forward hull, O'Connell thought they stood a fair chance of not being killed by their own side.

"Ya know, Sarn't, some sort of white flag might be helpful as well. To let our blokes know we ain't, ya know, hostile." Fitzhugh shrugged, he felt badly about giving Caddick guff earlier. The kid's comment had sparked the whole grease-painted tarp idea.

"Where are we going to get white cloth?" Sullivan asked.

Fitzhugh perked up, "Our drawers are almost white!"

O'Connell chuckled and said, "Maybe when first issued, but now ..."

Fitzhugh finished the thought, "They're pale enough I wager, tie a pair to the Lee-Enfield, it'll get the point across."

"Better than nothin', Sarn't." Sullivan agreed.

"Leftenant, come 'ave a look at this, Sir. It's a tracked vehicle, but it's bloody odd looking. Some sort of insignia painted on the top, can't quite make it out."

Lieutenant Grimshaw came out of the makeshift bunker and into the main trench. It was a slapdash affair, not meant to be permanent. They were expecting orders to fall back all the way to Benghazi at any minute.

Lifting his field glasses, Grimshaw looked in the direction Sergeant Sanders was pointing. Sure enough, it was a small armored vehicle, apparently with a tarp over the top of the superstructure. The tarp had a crude jerboa painted on it, rather like that used by the 7th Armoured.

"Running gear looks Italian, too tall for a Semovente, my guess is an M13/40. Are those fellows on top waving a set of underwear from a stick?" Grimshaw was confused, his gut told him to hold fire, a lot of stragglers from the battle near Agedabia were still coming in, some in an odd assortment of vehicles.

"Ready the two-pounder, Sarn't, just in case."

"Sir!"

As the vehicle got closer, Grimshaw focused his glasses on the men on top of the vehicle. He counted four, knowing that the Italian tanks had a four man crew, he knew there were more men inside. The chaps on top, infantry? But one vehicle? If they were Italian, they were suicidal.

"Sir!"

"What is it, Sarn't?"

"The chaps on top are wearing British kit, and one of 'em is a ginger."

"A what?"

"A ginger, Sir, red hair. These chaps look burned to a crisp. I'd put a pound on them being Irish. Don't look like any Italian I've ever seen."

"Keep the gun trained on them, I'm going to wave them in. Heads up lads!" he shouted to the rest of the platoon. Grimshaw knew that northern Italy held a lot of fair-haired Italians, but redheads were rather rare in Italy.

Lieutenant Colonel Gilbert from regiment was shaking his head as he examined the tarp with its crude depiction of a desert rat, as the lads called them. "Quite effective, if somewhat crude, O'Connell. Well done."

"Thank you, Sir.  Can we keep the crate?"

"Well, we are short of armour, so we'll keep it, but I want you lads on the next lorry to Tobruk. Get you a proper tank. We'll probably dig this one in here as a bunker or something."

"Very good, Sir. Uh, can we keep the tarp? It's served us well."

"Oh yes, quite. I'd think about reproducing your rather fanciful jerboa on your next tank. Quite distinctive, if somewhat crude."

"We're tankers, Sir, not artists." O'Connell pointed out.

"Yes, it rather shows, doesn't it?" Gilbert smiled as he said that. "Carry on, Sergeant."

"Sir!" O'Connell saluted then led his crew to the supply point where they might get lucky and catch a ride to the rear. He rolled the tarp up as he walked.

"We keeping the Eyetie tank, Sarn't?" Fitzhugh asked as O'Connell walked up.

"The army is, we're back to Tobruk to get a proper tank."

As the crew followed them, O'Connell handed the tarp to Sullivan.  "Keep this, it's been lucky for us, hasn't it?"

"Sure has, Sarn't." Caddick answered.

As they walked, O'Connell was still a little steamed at the artist crack from the lieutenant colonel. He turned and said, "Fitzie, when we get our new crate, I want to name her Rembrandt. For the artist, ya know?"

"Sure Sarn't, but ... - Ah, I get it, for Caddick's artwork."

"Yes, the officer from regiment wasn't impressed, but the Leftenant who waved us in thought it damned clever. As do I. Now let's get hopping, Jerry and his Italian friends are expected shortly, I want to be well on the road to Tobruk when that happens."