The Rats Against the Fox

“What bloody use is it sending us out here on our own?” Said the new gunner. A young lad named Robertson. He had come from London with a fresh batch of replacements. Monty’s Eigth Army had taken a beating across the North Africa campaign. Sergeant Day had grimaced when he first saw him. Fresh faced, clean shaven. His uniform was finely pressed and his boots sparkled. Day had got him shy of them quickly. Those thick army boots got in the way of the foot pedal trigger for the 75mm cannon - their personal weapon of destruction. They found him a nice pair of suede shoes in a Cairo market. It made them laugh sometimes; they imagined Field Marshall Montgomery coming to inspect their troop and finding 5 scruffy, unshaven men, dressed in a hodge podge of corduroy trousers, suede shoes, and torn battledress. Very quickly the crew took Robertson under their wing. He was the kid of their squadron, only nineteen years old. Day was in his thirties, positively ancient by comparison. 

“Oh I don’t know boyo.” Said “Sandy” Martin, a thick legged Welshman. He himself only in the crew a few months, but already a veteran. “Somebody’s got to watch the flanks y’know.” 

The four crewmen of Day’s tank sat in the hot sand eating a mixture of sliced corned beef and hard tack biscuit. Meanwhile Day surveyed the surrounding area. He had grown to be weary of the desert. Looking out it looked flat, but once you were down and amongst it there were lots of places to hide. John ‘Jock’ Campbell, pulled a flimsy off of the back off the tank, and poured a gallon of water into a bucket and placed it on top of a make do stove. Jock had been with the Squadron since they first landed in Africa. He’d been the driver of every sort of tank the British army could muster, Honeys, Crusaders, Matildas, Grants, before finally landing a cushy seat in a Sherman tank. 

“Fancy a cuppa char Sergeant?” Called Geordie to Sergeant Day. He was stood near the top of a small embankment surveying the ground around them.

“Aye Geordie, ta.” He said, not looking away from his field glasses. He had snatched them from a German tank commander who he was sure would never need them again. He was funny like that, Day, he would pick up odds and ends here and there ‘Jus’ ‘ncase’ he needed them somewhere down the line. For a man whose future was so unbelievably indefinite he often found himself thinking about it. What job he’d have coming out of it all. Would he be a good father? Would Michael Smith the bastard next door be happily dead when he got home? Would he get home?

He looked through his bright spectacles. What was out there? He’d had a tough time running into German anti tank guns in the early days of the desert war, and an even tougher time recently, running into the fearsome ‘Tiger’ Tank. Its powerful 88mm gun could punch a whole straight through his tank, not to mention the dreaded Spandau machine gun which would tear him to shreds if he tried to flee. He could see it now, in the dead of night, the ripping sound of spandaus and the ear shattering cacophony from the 88, throwing him and the turret from the steel body rending him into a series of bloody ribbons; then bundled smouldering in a heap on the floor.

Day mused on this future for a moment, then - suddenly: figures bobbed along upon the sandy horizon of his warm black field glasses. He studied the figures intensely. Were they ours? He couldn’t be sure. The haze of the desert distorted his view and his eyes strained against the pale sand. He skidded down the embankment he had perched himself upon and clambered back onto his tank. It was American made, strong, encouraging, but damned tall. He slid himself into the round top hatch and, reaching his arm down, clicked the wireless set to the ‘A’ set and spoke into his microphone.

“Hullo, Able Two, got some funny boys tramping around here, are these our little friends? Able over.” 

The radio crackled for a moment. It reminded him of when his mother would struggle to find the BBC back home. He would have to buy her a nice radio when he got back. He had picked up a nice one from a brewed up little Italian tank, but a trigger happy artillerist had seen to it that it would never see England. Then through the crackling of the wireless came the Squadron’s Major.

“Ah Hello, Able Two. No word from our little friends. With any luck they’ll be Eyeties and give up. Proceed as you see fit. Able Two over.”

“Able Two. Roger. Over.” He clicked back onto the intercom and removed the headset from his ears. He clambered back out of the claustrophobic turret. At the back of the tank was the rest of the crew. The four men were huddled around a petrol stove making a chlorinated cup of tea. 

“A’right lads,” He said, casting shadow over the men “Mount up now. We’ve got some infantry up ahead we’ve got to check out.”

There was a unanimous moan amongst them. 

“Oh come on now Serge we’ve just got it boiling.” Spoke the operator Geordie, a tall man who had been a bookkeeper in Newcastle before the war.

“Aye, Day,” Spoke Jock, “Probably just some Eyeties looking fir someone tae surrender to.” He had been unemployed prior to the scuff. He’d volunteered on the first day of the war, happy for something to do. Little did he know he would be driving an iron box around the scorching desert under the burning sun with dust acting as an abrasive on his eyes from dusk till dawn. He had a permanent squint on, just to be safe.

“‘Nd what if they’re Gerry?” Asked Sandy, the thick legged Welshman. He had been a Farmer. Now he was the Co-driver of their Sherman tank.

“Then we’ll just tell them to sod off while we have a brew.” Robertson said. He had been a schoolboy before the war. 

Despite their protestations the men all shifted quite quickly, packing away their stove and downing gulps of very weak tea. They clambered into the tank, hopping on the front glacis plate or climbing onto the turret, each sliding into the steel lummox.

What would happen now then? He could sally forth and go up and ask them who they were. If they were British then there’d be no problem. If they were Italians they might surrender, but that was no guarantee. If they were Germans then they could expect to be hit by some unseen supporting tanks, or anti-tank guns. The crew sat waiting for their commands. Day looked around the cramped fighting compartment of his mobile home, huddled with his men in the gloomy, sweltering interior. He wondered what they would do once it was all over. Would they be able to slip back into civilian life easily? Would some of they stay on? Would some of them never return home? Day dismissed this thought from his mind. It wasn’t thoughts like that which got him out of Dunkirk. Besides, these were good lads, they knew their stuff. They could get out of a pinch.

“A’right,” He said over IC (Inter-comm) “Driver start up, Operator load HE.” High explosive rounds would be good against infantry. “Martin keep your eyes open for AT guns or armour. Nobody shoot ‘til I give the order. These could be our lads. Right, Driver forward and left up this incline.” 

The engine roared to life and the 40 ton monster lurched up the sandy bank.

“My bollocks are drowning in this heat!” Cried Geordie. He clapped Robertson on the leg, letting him know that a fresh shell was loaded into the 75mm gun.

“Keep the chatter down now Geordie, there’s a lad.” Day spoke with an unusual worry in his voice. They were in danger here. He knew that it would take only one well placed shell to ignite their fuel and burn them all alive, turning them from Britain’s dashing young heroes into screaming human torches clawing at the hot steel walls looking for escape. If they were lucky the ammunition would detonate and kill them mercifully in an instant. The thought made Day shudder. He had seen too many good lads fry like that. And too many more mutilated by flying steel ricocheting around inside the hull. The idea of imminent living cremation clawed its way into all of their minds, occupying an increasing amount of space in minds already bogged down by the heat of the desert.

The tank reared up over the bank and came level with the figures advancing towards them. Day watched as the figures stopped. The tank idled as the two groups watched each other. Through his field glasses Day could make out only the shapes of around ten men, about a section. He clicked onto the A set again.

“Hullo, Able Two. I can’t make out these infantry, could’ya raise our little friends and ask for ‘n update? Over.” 

“Hello, Able Two” Came the voice of the Major, “Will do. Be careful now. Able Over.” 

Despite the blaring heat of the sun beating down on his head, Day felt cold. They must be ours. They must know the shape of our tank. He wasn’t dead yet so they must know. He turned his head quickly side to side, looking for a tank, or anti-tank gun. He strained his ears trying to hear for Stukas screaming down from the sky. He would be first out, if he wasn’t torn to shreds. Day, as the commander, had his head sticking out the top of the tank. While it was technically protocol for all crew to ‘button up’ their hatches when in combat it became obvious to those actually fighting that this was suicide. This turned a sophisticated machine of death into a blind and awkward tractor with a gun bolted ontop. So he would be the first one out. He’d spring out the hatch and leap to the ground - better a broken leg than the aforementioned alternative. Then out would come the two drivers, or perhaps only one of them depending where the shell hit them. Then out would come Geordie, if he wasn’t dead. He would wiggle his way past the gun and slide out the hatch. Finally Robertson would come out, under the gun, up the turret and out the hatch. Day knew that statistically one of them would die if they got hit. Then the Majors voice came through the air, snapping Day out of his frightening thoughts.

“Hello, Able Two, our boys are about three miles north of you. Your little friends are not ours. Proceed with caution. Able out.”

Every set of eyes widened in the tank as they heard the Majors voice. There was a moment of silence. Robertson and Geordie turned to look at Sergeant Day, awaiting for his command. 

Day was frozen in place. They weren’t dead yet. But they would be if he didn’t act fast.

“Gunner! Traverse right! Two hundred yards!” He shouted. The turret whirled around until it pointed at a cluster of infantry who had hidden behind rocks and rolls in the ground, just barely visible against the pale sand. “On!”

Robertson pressed his head into the forehead pad of the gun site. Sweat had already saturated it from his head. His heart raced. His breathing increased.

“FIRE!” Day shouted.

 The gun shattered the air and sent burning death towards the figures. The ground ahead of them exploded with an ear splitting boom as the breach of the gun flew rearwards. Sandy opened fire down in the hull of the tank, sending hundreds of angry snaps of hatred towards the now scattering infantry. Geordie slapped Robertson on the leg and he sent a second shell towards the enemy. 

“Gunner! Brass up that ground ahead of us! Keep their heads down!” He shouted.

Robertson fired away with the coaxial machine gun mounted alongside the 75. He fired another 75mm shell. The ground exploded and he watched as a dunkelgelb clad lump flew into the air, spraying bright red streamers from all limbs.

CRASH! - The tank lurched to the side, throwing all the men inside around like pills in a bottle. Ears ringing and his ribcage burning from where he had slammed against the ring of his hatch, Day called out commands automatically. The turret whirled around once more as Jock floored it in reverse. The three guns on the tank fired in all directions. A german anti tank gun had been pushed into position between two dunes. Damn! If only he’d been wiser, he’d have charged the infantry and caught the gun off guard.

“Hit that gun!” He cried over the IC. The 75 fired and hit the front plate of the German Anti-Tank gun. The gun exploded in a ball of flames and the crew were vaporised in the explosion. 

“Driver back left over this bank, let’s get the hell out of here!”

The tracks gripped at the hot sand and dragged the tank up the rear bank as the guns still chartered away. German fire splitered around Day’s head forcing him to duck down into the turret. As they reversed the tank rose up against the bank, rising higher and higher, tilting further forward at a crazier and crazier angle.Just when they were sure they would tip over forward, trapping them all inside their iron coffin to be slow cooked by the saharan sun, they came crashing down back into the depression they had started in.

“Chist!” Someone called. Day’s head was a still in a haze. He pulled his head out of his hatch once again. He became aware once again that they’d been hit. He grabbed his radio.

“Everyone okay?” He asked over IC.

A grumble of replies came through the air. Seems like everyone was fine.

“That was too damn close Serge!" Geordie Spat, ripping his headseat from his ears.

The din of battle had left them now, bringing them once again to the relative calm of the 450hp engine ticking away.

"What now, then?" Asked Sandy. What now? Leave? Their position was compromised, in their brief fight - lasting perhaps a minute from the first shot fired - they had fired 10 shells and almost a thousand rounds of browning; they could leave now and have felt a good job done. But they weren't out of ammo, they had taken only superficial damage. They had no reason to leave. They might be called windy, or cowardly if they go now. Could anyone blame them? They were alone after all. He was thinking of what he should do when he thought he ought to report his action. He flicked the switch and spoke:

"Hullo, Able Two. Engaged the enemy at my point, took out one gun and a few infantry. We took a hit but we're not badly damaged. Able, over."

"Hello, Able." Spoke the Major, as fresh voiced and cheery as ever. "Jolly good show. Get your boys back before this ghibli rolls in. Able Two Over."

"Able Two, Roger. Out." He clicked the wireless back to IC. "Right boys, you heard the man lets get gone."

And with a word the tank rolled forward and accelerated out of the depression, throwing dust in the air as they raced along the desert. The Germans gave them a bit of a mortar bombing but Day felt it was nothing more than a nuisance, really. He sat now, calmed somewhat from his earlier feelings of fright and panic, and thought about having a nice cup of tea he had been promised earlier. He might even try get a few days leave, try and find his mum a new wireless set. He should write home too, let them know how things were going. He couldn't tell them what exactly had happened of course, Hitler might find out that his driver was a Scotsman, then they'd all be doomed.