The Shadow of War by Jack Murray (latest ebook reader txt) 📗

THE SHADOW OF WARTHE FIRST DANNY SHAW / MANFRED BREHME TANK NOVEL

Jack Murray & JMurray

Table of Contents

THE SHADOW OF WAR

THE FIRST DANNY SHAW / MANFRED BREHMETANK NOVEL

Copyright © 2020 by JackMurray& J Murray

Jackmurray99@hotmail.com

Prologue

Chapter 1:Britain 1933

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2

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4

Chapter 2: Germany1933

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4

Chapter 3:Britain 1938 - 39

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5

Chapter 4:Germany 1938 - 39

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Chapter 5:Britain 1941

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Chapter 6:Germany 1941

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Chapter 7:Britain 1941

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Chapter 8:Italy 1941

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A Note fromthe Author

ResearchNotes

Acknowledgements

About theAuthors

Copyright © 2020 by Jack Murray& J Murray

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may bereproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, includingphotocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without theprior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of briefquotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial usespermitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher,addressed ‘Attention: Permissions Coordinator,’ at the address below.

Jackmurray99@hotmail.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses,places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’simagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons,living or dead, or actual events is either purely coincidental or used in afictitious manner.

Prologue

North Africa: 2nd November 1942

God it was hot.

Rivers of sweat flowed from hisforehead, or was it blood? He couldn’t see. All around him was a blur. Thesmoke, the sweat, the watery images caused by the heat stopped his eyes fromfocusing. His arm seemed to be stuck. He wanted to wipe his eyes. He tried tofree his hand. No joy. The air seemed to be draining from the cabin. Eachbreath he took fried his lungs. His legs also seemed to be locked into aposition. Something was holding them down. He needed to wipe his eyes.

The coughing started. Breathe,cough, breathe again. The pain seared his throat like acid. The heat was nolonger murmuring now; it was crackling. All around him the metal of the cabinseemed to be melting. The sound of the fire was intoxicating, like immersivepercussion. He was drowning in its indiscriminate beat. His eyes closed. Thetemperature was overwhelming him now.

He heard music. His fatherfloated into view and then he saw her. He looked into her green eyes. Theysmiled invitingly. So much he wanted to say but, how could he? And then theydisappeared from view. He tried to reach out to hold her. Only darkness now.There was a loud rumbling. Like thunder in the distance.

His eyes opened again. Thesound of crackling was louder. Getting nearer. Still he felt weighed down. Witha struggle he freed one arm and wiped his eyes. He wished he hadn’t. A body waslying over him. He levered it away, freeing up his other arm. The skin on hishand was curdling.

Lifeless eyes gazed at himmockingly. It would be his turn next. Death was all around him. It would soonslowly enfold him in its arms and caress him away from the pain, the heat andthe hate. He closed his eyes.

A series of explosions outside.He woke with a start. Another explosion, more distant. He roused himself oncemore. Every breath was a struggle now.

Another body lay over his feet.He tried to kick free. Pain knifed his chest as he tried to rise, he floppedback. It was useless. And the crackling fire grew louder and edged closer. Hefelt like crying. This is how it be then. The immensity of the moment was toomuch. The indignity of it. Absurd almost. He was in despair. Panic rose in him,drowning his spirit, his will to live. The cabin seemed airless now. He criedout a name. Her name.

The shapes in the cabin grewindistinct again and the crackling grew dimmer, like a murmur. And then he wokeagain. And he began to scream over and over again. Not like this. It couldn’tbe like this. He screamed again. He screamed until the pain in his throatthreatened to overcome him and then he kept screaming.

Chapter 1: Britain 1933

 1

LittleGloston: February 1933

Theair was cold and green with shadow under the trees hinting at the first bloomof spring. The brightening sky had lifted Danny’s mood of despondency as hepounded up the road. Blood pulsed through his veins. Ribs vaulted with everystride. Muscles drew and flexed and pumped through the morning ground mist andhis head jerked from side to side until he finally darted clear. His adversarygave up the chase with the shake of a fist accompanied by a few words unlikelyto be repeated in front of the congregation at St Bartholomew’s on Sunday.

Dannygrinned, gave a mock military salute and slowed to a trot. He made sure tomaintain some momentum lest his pursuer find a second wind. The sound of thelad’s voice receded into the distance. The lad in question was Bert Gissing.Eighteen and at least as many hands in height: over six feet anyway. Large,too. He liked his food. Perhaps too much. Quick enough over thirty yards but ifyou could evade his massive paws then you could outlast him even when weigheddown by a couple of dozen apples.

Safeat last, Danny turned around and saw Bert trooping dejectedly back to the farmwhere he worked. For a moment, Danny felt a stab of guilt. Would Bert findhimself in trouble, he wondered? He wasn’t a bad sort really. He had his job todo. It wasn’t made easier by Danny or his chums who periodically raided theorchard for apples. The farmer could afford it. Still, he’d tell Bob and Alecto lay off old man McIver’s farm for a bit.

Reachinginto his canvas bag, he extracted a red apple. Moisture glistened like tinyjewels on the skin. He admired the product of his criminal efforts for amoment. Filched fruit seemed to have a fragrance and a sweet taste all its own.The first crunch released watery juices that overran his mouth and oozed downhis chin. He wiped it away with his sleeve and continued on back to his house,dodging puddles of water on the muddy path as he went.

Elevenyears of age, Danny should really have been in school but, of late, hisinterest in academic life had petered out. He and his friends regularly mitchedoff for a day if the weather was clement. By early summer they would haveabandoned