Arthur Wright's Story Part I Arthur raised his head from the sandy floor of the alleyway behind the bar. The heat of the desert rose like a snake and the cold night began to envelop the city. A similar sensation was rushing upon him from the dark of his mind. He knew too well what it felt to be hemmed in - suddenly he was in the tank again. His heart thudded like a shell had been dropped in his rib cage. Walls of poorly-forged steel. Barely an inch-thick, it might as well have been glass. His shaking hands pawing ineffectually at rattling binoculars. Then there was the other wall, the one that moved, the one that asked all the questions – the Desert Fox’s wall. He pressed his back to the nearest solid surface in an attempt to anchor himself from the onrush of panic. Nausea had been coming in moments like this for over a month now. When he felt one coming he had to get away from his men. They couldn’t be allowed to see. The spinning lights of Alexandria were trapped in the neck of the bottle that he was for some reason still holding. Fortunately, normality suddenly intruded.
“You alright, Sir?” a voice called at him from the open doorway to his right. The din of a bar could be heard behind the speaker’s Scotch accent. “Yes…perfectly fine, Private.” Arthur managed to say, dusting off his uniform. “Do you really have to call me that on leave, Sir?” said the Scotsman holding the door open with a cheeky smile. “Just Dougie will do.” Arthur sighed. “Sorry Kilbane. How long had you been stood there?” “In truth, I only just came outside, Sir” the loader lied. Arthur went back into the bar through the door the Scotsman had appeared from. He paused to smooth his hair in a speckled mirror with a badly chipped gilt frame. He was just 25, but in this moment he could have passed for a man 20 years his senior. He jumped when Kilbane slapped him affectionately on the shoulder. He almost had forgotten his crewman was there. “No point looking in there, Sir,” said the Scotsman with a wink, “The girls are by the bar.” The main room of the building was a scene of mixed emotion. Some joyous troops, New Zealanders by appearance, were singing a folk song in the corner boisterously. At the bar, a couple of fresh-faced boys in crisply pressed uniforms were talking nervously to a woman with bronzed skin. Through the haze of cigarette smoke, Arthur made
out the rest of his crew. They were sat at the table they had barely moved from since leave of absence was called for their unit. There were few smiles between them. “Next round’s on me, lads,” said Arthur trying to galvanise the mood. He really didn’t feel like any more alcohol. “To be honest, Sir”, sighed Private Houghton, “We were just thinking about calling it a night.” The others murmured a kind of weary agreement but not a single one of them relished the thought of trying to sleep. They all made this realisation at once and set about playing cards. The room smelt of rich spice, bad beer and sickly-sweet perfume. Arthur took a seat next to Private Houghton, his tank’s driver, and looked over his shoulder to see where Kilbane had gone. The Scotsman had drifted away somewhere. Arthur turned back to his cards. The morning sun began to peer through the curtainless windows. Arthur realised he had been asleep on the table. Someone had carved a quotation on its surface: What hath night to do with sleep? “Milton,” Arthur remembered with a brief smile; university was a world away now. The bar was empty except for the ghosts of the night before – stains on the wooden floor and many half-empty glasses. Victory did not feel like this. What time was it?
Arthur looked at his wrist to check the time but saw nothing except the white silhouette of where it had been. Oh that’s right, he had lost it in the sands during the Siege. His memory had never been the same since Tobruk. They were lucky that no serious damage had occurred when they crested that dune with the concealed rock. When the underside of the tank grounded, screeching horribly as metal scraped stone, the leather strap finally perished from the mix of heat and nervous sweat. The watch, a present for his 21st birthday from his parents, fell into a sea of sand. Time lost in an hourglass that never runs out. Arthur knew it was still early as the sounds of the city were different at this time. He made his way out of the bar past the old gilt mirror and paused to look at himself again. Kilbane was a good man, he thought, remembering his saviour from the night before. He took a comb from his shirt pocket and smoothed down his hair with a little water. He was due at HQ for the unveiling of the regiment’s new tanks - something called an M3 from America. Lost for a moment in thoughts of machinery, Arthur remembered the A10 Cruiser Mk.II that his troop had been issued with until now. He was a Second-Lieutenant in charge of three tanks, including his own. How wonderful it was when they first met Italian armour, the punchy gun easily surmounting any opposition they came against. Then there was the first sortie with German armour that had brought them crashing down to earth. He checked himself from becoming too negative. He was an officer after all. Stiff upper lip. That’s the spirit. After returning to his quarters and changing into a fresh uniform Arthur lined up in front of his men on the parade ground and waited for the CO to emerge from the mess. In the centre of the camp, under a tied-down, white tarpaulin was the new machine. The parade ground was awash with excited chatter: “It’s shorter than the A10, I’ll tell you that for free!” chirped Private Chapman. “Aye, but what kind of armament does it have?” said Private Jones in reply.
“It’s all well and good being able to shoot back, Jonesy,” said Houghton, “but what happens when they shoot at you?” “At us.” Jones replied gravely. Arthur was just about to raise his voice and reinstate parade-ground silence when a Warrant Officer barked out: “Officer on parade!” and everyone stood to attention. “At ease,” said the CO, taking command.
He was a fiery man, a Colonel of about 50 called Wyndham-Ferris. He had the face of a terrier and the temper of one that had just had its tail stepped on. It was hard to know when the first stomp had occurred but by Arthur’s guess it had happened somewhere between his conception and his fifth birthday and that he’d never really gotten over it. He was a hard man to like but the respect most of the unit had for him was immense. They had been through Tobruk. They had somehow won something in this war. Arthur turned to inspect his men. Corporal Somerset had his full crew of five as did Sergeant Davies. Looking at his own crew, Arthur saw Jones, the gunner, barely able to keep still as usual, Chapman, the Radio Operator and Houghton the driver. “Where the devil is Kilbane?” Arthur asked in annoyance, suddenly aware he was a man down. This was most unlike the Scot. Although today was still technically a day of leave, Arthur had no ambition to be the only commander in the regiment to turn up without a full crew to meet the new armour. The faces that were supposed to answer him, instead looked back with intense concern. “Perhaps you should lie down, Sir?” Arthur was puzzled. His lip trembled slightly. A hand fell warmly onto his shoulder - it was the Colonel. Arthur heard a calm voice in his head but he wasn’t sure of the direction it came from. “Steady, son.”
He felt like he could drift to sleep, the realisation slowly dawning. My, was it hot today! The desert sun beat upon him from above. Everyone was staring. “Sir,” Houghton said stepping forward out of rank, his eyes filled with a deep sadness. “It’s been over a month.”
Arthur Wright's Story Part II “What hath night to do with sleep?” chuckled Arthur to himself as the little tank glided over the moonlit dunes. Through leave in Alexandria, and his small stint in the military hospital, that quotation had seemed etched into his mind. “How does she feel, Davey?” he yelled in a vaguely downwards direction, trying to catch his driver over the roar of the engine. “Like honey, Sir!” the man replied, in a voice so cheery that Arthur could sense the broadening smile on the man’s face. “Just call me Arthur – it’s alright.” And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, things were alright.
She was a rickety old gal, made from tractor parts, but lord almighty she could move. This was the first time Arthur had been out in the new machine since the short lay-off had been forced on him. Despite his own relative greenness, the lads of his crew were already well acquainted with how the tank felt, rolling and lolling over the desert outside camp. In fact, the M3 Stuart reacted so smartly to every twitch and turn that Arthur was having trouble finding the best place to situate himself inside the commander’s section of the turret. No one was sure who had first coined the phrase but the men of the regiment were now calling it “the Honey”. It wasn’t a sophisticated machine but Arthur felt it could get the job done and that was all that mattered. The crew looked pleased anyway - wide grins were infrequent in the desert but at this speed, with the front hatches open and cool air streaming through the entire hull, the crew might have used the word happy. “Turn us round then,” ordered Arthur and the little tank headed for base.
*** They hadn’t always been this smitten. When the NCOs had originally lifted the veil off the new tank on the parade ground, the men had immediately started a vicious debate: “What kind of a joke is this? Are they having a laugh?” Jones whispered to his fellow crewmen, motioning toward the tank’s main armament. “It’s a damn pop gun still. Fifteen reports I’ve written…”
In front of the murmur of men, Colonel Wyndham-Ferris frowned. As informal as the parade was, no-one was really paying him the respect that his rank commanded. A loud cough into his hand resounded like a bark and seemed to ricochet off the assembled men. Everyone suddenly snapped to attention. As the men awaited the Colonel’s speech a few eyes turned to watch Arthur being lead away by a couple of NCOs. Wyndham-Ferris felt sorry for the young commander who clearly wasn’t coping well with losing a member of his crew – what was the chap’s name? The Scot? Kilbane? Yes, that was it. “At ease,” Wyndham-Ferris said, not entirely meaning it. “As you well know, I’ve called you here today to become acquainted with a new resource. Some of you may have seen them before – the 5th Tanks have had them since they helped us out at Tobruk. Sergeant-Major Hinds will dismiss you and a crew of the Royal Engineers will go through the basic mechanics of this new fighting vehicle.” He surveyed the men with his tiny, ink-dot eyes. Although primarily here to show the soldiers their new equipment, Wyndham-Ferris also wanted to get an idea on how the men were looking after recuperation in the city. Were they healthy? Were they content? More importantly - were they ready to fight again? The Colonel and the man exchanged salutes. He left the parade ground on legs almost too small to carry him. He too was a soldier of the armoured regiments and never quite looked comfortable without a set of tracks beneath him. The camp was a ragtail mess of tents and some more permanent structures. It lay just near enough to the city of Alexandria to benefit from the sweeping sea breezes that carried the blissful aromas of the Mediterranean. It was a shabby town of dive bars on the whole and Wyndham-Ferris had preferred to spend his period of leave alone with his collection of maps. He knew Tobruk was no genuine victory. Entering the dark roofed building that housed his staff, Corporal Cummings, the Colonel’s aide-de-camp, looked up from his desk. “Command called for you, Sir.” “Very good, Stephen,” The Colonel replied removing his beret off and putting it on a coat hook, “How many of my men do they want to take away this time?”
*** Arthur could tell from the groggy feeling in his forehead that he still wasn’t well. He was unsure how long he’d been in the field hospital but ever since they put him there he’d wanted to be out again. Sleep found him. In his dream he saw the gilt-framed mirror of the bar back in Alexandria. He was looking at himself again, sand and grit covered his uniform and face. He looked too old for his years. Something else was wrong. He felt at his khaki shirt sleeve, itchy and dulled from the heat. There was a strange, white shape left in his tanned skin. His watch was missing! A presence was stirring by his left shoulder. It felt like breath. He shuddered. He wasn’t going to look in
the mirror again. He felt that if he did, the ghost of Kilbane would be there, smiling and motioning towards the bar. Quite slowly it began to dawn on Arthur that the floor was made of sand. It began to give way under his weight, consuming and embracing him; warm sand, soft like pillows… Arthur slowly began to wake. A short figure was sat bolt upright in the canvas-backed chair to his bedside. Wyndham-Ferris was thumbing through a worn paperback that a nurse had removed from Arthur’s kit. Arthur didn’t know whether to salute or just lie there, eyes widening with waking shock at seeing a senior officer right next to him. Wyndham-Ferris noticed: “Steady, son,” the Colonel said, echoing his words from the parade ground. Through the man’s permanent frown, Arthur felt he could see a smile, “You’ve had a rough time of it.” Arthur began to try and say something but the Colonel subtly raised a hand to show he wanted to continue talking. “Tobruk was hell. But you got your boys through. What happened to Private Kilbane was not your fault – war is war. Whatever that man meant to you, both as a soldier and as a friend – you have to take that with you and keep going.” Arthur wasn’t sure what to feel. Should it be embarrassment at what had happened on the parade ground? He had almost fainted. The Colonel clearly had something to say as by now, he had put the paperback down and stood up. “Some people back in London think lads who’ve had a blow like this deserve to see a different front in this war. The truth is, this army needs men like you here more than ever. Be proud and show the leadership that I know you are capable of.” Arthur did not know if he was still dreaming. “You know where to find me when they discharge you.” He turned to leave the sick bay. Arthur felt a pang of pride that he had not felt since childhood. Did the Colonel really believe in him that much? “Sir,” Arthur said, finally able to get a word out, albeit with a stammer. The old officer turned around, his face creased up and dog-like again. “I’m not going anywhere, Sir.” The Colonel’s mouth and brow made that shape that vaguely resembled a smile again. He nodded slightly and left.
*** Arthur was lying prone atop a dune, half buried in concealing sand and peering down the other side at the Panzer III lying in wait. This was perfect. He crawled backwards and, when clearly out of sight behind the crest of the dune, slid down the slope as fast as he could towards his tank. He jumped up onto the hull and swung himself into the hatch. “There’s one of them on the other side, alone.” Everyone grinned back – they knew by now what the M3 was capable of in situations like this. A month of fighting in the machine and they were more confident than they had ever been in any other fighting vehicle. Arthur picked up the radio and checked in with the other tanks under his command. They were both located within eyesight of Arthur, fully crewed and ready for orders. “Listen in everyone, here’s what we’ll do. Somerset, Davies, take your tanks around the front of the dune. There is a Panzer on the other side, bait him and head for the airfield. We’ll crest the lowest point and put a shot into the engine. Understood?” His radio crackled back with approval. “Use your speed and for god’s sake don’t stop moving. I expect the noise will attract the other scouts in the area so keep those hatches open and get ready to spot. We’ll join you on the airstrip after we knock this one out.” He turned to Private Houghton and nodded. The Honey seemed to pivot entirely on the spot. They were now facing up the steep bank of the dune. Even at its lowest point, the angle of attack on the sandy slope was blood-curdling. “Ok Davey, back her up so we can build some speed. Quieten her down when we crest. Wait for the others to run past before we show ourselves.” Arthur whispered.
The other two M3s had started up again. They eagerly whizzed past. At this, Arthur’s little tank roared into life and began to eagerly surmount the obstacle. The heat and oily smell coming off the little engine stung the eyes of the crew but it also got their blood pumping. They and their machine were wide awake again. The gritty sand crunched and rustled under the narrow tracks as they sailed upwards. Soon enough the crest of the dune was poised to fall away. Houghton let go of the throttle and they were silently perched, a metal silhouette against the fading light of the desert evening. Through the front hatch, those in the crew who were facing forward saw their view of the starry sky above turn into the hapless shape of the grey Panzer below them. At that moment, the German tank’s turret began to move – they had spotted the distraction run of the other tanks in Arthur’s troop. “Now!” Arthur exclaimed, “Keep us steady, we don’t want to roll...” The M3 began the descent. It was a lot steeper than Arthur had anticipated but his driver seemed to relish being only just at the point of control. “Jones, pass me an armour piercing round but don’t shoot until we have the rear armour. We have to make this count.” “Here!” replied the gunner. “Good, await my order.” They were almost at the bottom. The Panzer was moving forward now, trying to close the distance on the Stuarts that it had spotted. Jones began to operate the turret traverse and get the gun lined up. “Davey, halt here….steady….fire!” The 37mm gun went off with an audible “PAP!” its armour piercing shell ricocheted off the back corner of the boxy German tank. The Panzer halted and its turret began to turn like the neck of a cumbersome predator. Tension was only slightly raised in Arthur’s voice – he knew how fast the gun could be reloaded. “Fire!” This time the tiny shell planted itself firmly in the rear of the Panzer. Smoke and flame bellowed from the tank and the escape hatches flew open. “They’re done for, let’s go find the others.” As Houghton got the tank moving again, the radio barked into life - it was Corporal Somerset: “Contact, Sir! Two more of them out here by the airstrip.” “Move!” Arthur shouted, the Honey reeled around and bolted in the direction of their allies, everyone inside was pushed backwards by the force of the engine. The sounds of battle were now beginning…
Arthur Wright's Story Part III A cruel and lazy sun was lukewarm on his skin. It shone dully through half-closed shutters, forming a cold cross section on the table. The Alexandrian bar was somehow even more hopeless under the light of day than it had been a few months ago. Everything seemed to be covered in a layer of dust. How did the tank regiment end up here again?
It had all been going so well. After the successful sunset raid on the airfield, Arthur and his troop had enjoyed a few weeks of success against Rommel’s armour. Now, the tide had turned and they were on the back foot. A nervous-looking war reporter with a dog-eared note pad sat opposite him. The young man jumped every time the city produced a loud or foreign noise. He brushed red hair off his face with one hand and, shaking as he did so, put down his half-pint with the other. “Lieutenant, if you would p-please continue with y-your story?” Arthur took a sip from his glass and winced. If it had ever been scotch, it had surely been a nasty blend. He managed a smile nonetheless. The young man was essentially harmless and Arthur knew that this story probably wouldn’t reach print. Besides, every time he opened his mouth, the young man seemed too engaged to jot a single word down anyway. “It was the day of the push but this time, it was as if they knew we were coming…”
*** …the M3 Stuart was flung through three-hundred-and-sixty degrees, chaotically throwing Arthur out of his place in the turret and downwards onto Houghton. Its track was sheared in two by the detonation of the high explosive shell. At the speed they were travelling, the effect of the sudden loss of power to one of the vehicle’s sides induced the dizzying spin. They were helpless now and in a really bad spot. “Out!” Arthur screamed but the men were well drilled and had already scrambled for their exits. As the tank had fortuitously not spilled onto its side, it was still a threat to the enemy – its gun could yet be fired. Arthur knew that it was quite possible that they would be hit again. Outside the tank, the British line was a whirlwind of sand and oil. Fire pounded the ground from entrenched antitank weapons and grey shapes were bobbling on the horizon, the heat of the desert floor creating a mirage of their true location. For some reason Arthur’s regiment were still attempting the assault.
The metal of the crippled Stuart was scorching under Arthur’s hand as he vaulted off the hull and took cover. The last ones out, Chapman and Jones, fell into line just as a bright yellow tracer round ricocheted off the turret like stray lightning. To their left was a collection of ruins, poking out of the sand like broken teeth. Arthur and his men crawled their way to its relative safety. The sand tasted horrid. A second M3 Stuart, the one commanded by Somerset, Arthur’s Corporal, stopped near them but the young officer only waved his hands furiously: “Get out! Away!” Arthur screamed. The M3 traversed on the spot, its large rear drive-wheel winding like an enormous cog. As it bolted away another high-explosive shell smashed into the ground right where it had been standing. Arthur and his men were alone and surrounded by shellfire and smoke. “They were prepared, sir!” shouted Houghton, “How did they know?” Arthur didn’t know how to answer but knew well enough to say nothing even if he did. Finding cover, he simply put the set of field glasses to his eyes and surveyed the terrain. Things would be okay unless the German commander launched a counter attack - and that was when he saw the Panzer. The grey machine mounted a section of the ruins with ferocity. The ancient masonry crumbled under its weight like the falling apart of a dry bird’s nest. It was larger than the Panzers they had seen before and had enormous skirts mounted on the sides of the hull. Its frontal armour looked thicker too, with extra plates bolted on for good measure - no wonder the Stuarts had been struggling to do lasting damage from any angle. “Look out!” someone screamed but the men were frozen in place. The beast reeled round on its tracks, churning up sand and stone like a hurricane. It was bearing down on them now. Even at a slow pace it was more menacing than anything Arthur had seen before. Why couldn’t he move? Were they about to be killed or captured? Whatever the result, it seemed unlikely there was a way out of this one.
Suddenly, a shell smashed into the side of the Panzer between the turret and the hull. The audible fizzing sound indicated it had been a high explosive anti-tank shell. The turret ring had partially melted to the hull, the mechanism beneath straining ineffectually. Arthur and his men seized the chance and got to their feet. The Panzer now had to turn its entire hull in order to face the new threat. It was in vain. Another shell slammed into the front drive-wheel of the turning machine, simultaneously immobilising it and causing something inside the hull to combust.
A tank with British markings was just outside the ruins. It towered above the men. The gun, much larger than any that Arthur had seen on Allied armour to this point was mounted in a side sponson. It was smoking in the aftermath of its rescuing shot. High above, with his head poking out the commander’s hatch, was a welcome sight indeed. “Wright, get your men on the back sharply!” Wyndham-Ferris shouted, the dull light gleaming off the tankers’ badge on his beret. The Colonel’s tank manoeuvred round smartly and Arthur could assess just how large it really was. It must have been over 10 foot tall with a turret, mounting the familiar 37mm gun from the Stuarts, stuck on top like an afterthought. Struggling aboard the massive hull, the men clung to whatever handholds they could find. The machine accelerated swiftly towards British lines. Risking a glance over his shoulder, Arthur saw a fuzzy grey line of German tanks fill the horizon against the setting sun. The British forces began a swift fall back towards Alexandria…
*** The nervous young man had not actually been making notes for the entirety of Arthur’s story. He was listening so attentively that Arthur felt it would shame him to have it pointed out. “A senior officer r-really risked his own life to save you from the front?” Arthur could only reply with a smile at first. It would have been unlikely in perhaps any other conflict, and certainly in any other regiment, but life in the tanks was different. “The Colonel is just like that.” He finally said. “A different breed of officer. It’s the esprit de corps, I suppose, we’re all like it.” “You must have a lost a lot of friends” said the reporter before he suddenly remembered himself and blushed. “Oh sorry, how careless of me! I…” “It’s fine” said Arthur, feeling a pang in his chest. ”Would you like another drink?” Arthur got to his feet and went over to the empty bar. Hopefully this action would spare the young man further embarrassment. The staff of the bar all slept through the heat of the day so he fished out a dusty bottle from a floor cupboard on his own. Arthur left some crumpled notes in a jar on the bar side and stopped himself from trying any more of that terrible excuse for whisky. The young man was dithering with his note pad again, probably trying to recall the details of Arthur’s story that he had just heard. Arthur could only chuckle. Civilians seemed so funny these days. Especially those with some kind of ambition. He was suddenly saddened. The war was obscuring his mind. Hadn’t he once wanted to teach literature? “Anyway,” said Arthur, as much interrupting himself as trying to ease the young reporter’s anxieties, “back to the story, eh?”
*** The M3 Lee rolled back into base and Arthur and his men demounted. The hatch of the massive machine popped open and the Colonel lifted his tiny frame out of the tank. Damaged and dusty Stuarts and a couple of other Lees were slowly filtering into the bay. There were few smiles around. “Wright, I want to see you in my office right away.” “Yes, Sir.” Entering the Colonel’s office, Cummings, the secretary, stood up and saluted. “I heard on the wireless, Sir. Was it bad?” The Colonel nodded and seemed to bark in affirmation. Wyndham-Ferris lead Arthur into his private office and slammed the door behind him it sounded louder than any gunshot Arthur had heard all day. “Take a seat, Wright.” Arthur sat down. The desk was awash with papers and maps but most of the Colonel’s things were packed up. The Colonel was no fool – he knew their position was untenable and that they were being pushed even further back towards Alexandria. “Get ready for a full-scale retreat. For the last month, the Germans have anticipated every move we’ve made. Either we’re getting sloppy or something’s gone awry.” “Awry, Sir?” Arthur wasn’t sure why he asked. Of course things were awry. Command was a in a flurry. The rumours were that most of the officers in charge were being removed from their posts. Tobruk had fallen again, taken in no time at all. A cruel joke considering how long they had held on in that pitiful city.
The Colonel put both hands on his desk and peered at Arthur with a look that conveyed something like worried rage… “Listen closely, Wright…”
***
“What did he tell you?” said the reporter, forgetting his stammer amidst his excitement. “I’m afraid that’s classified.” Arthur replied, smiling again. The youth visibly deflated in his chair like suddenly stepped-upon bellows. Before the young man could launch another question Arthur had left the table. He needed a splash of cold water across his face. On his way through the narrow backroom corridor, he glimpsed a flash of light in the corner of his eye. Turning in that direction, Arthur found himself once again face to face with the gilt-framed mirror. He leaned in for a look and barely recognised the man he saw. He was older. War had aged him. How could they have gotten through the Tobruk months only to lose the city again and end up back here? He walked into the bathroom stall and splashed water onto his face. Then it suddenly dawned on him. With water still dripping from his nose he ran back out to the mirror and stared deeply into it. There was no one but him in the reflection. Arthur was still alive and there was no such thing as ghosts.