Crusader (A Novel of WWII Tank Warfare) by Jack Murray (important of reading books .TXT) 📗

Much to the surprise of both Danny and Arthur, Crickmay and Delsonstayed with them for a chat. The bar was playing wonderful music and the beerwas a vast improvement on the other places that Danny had visited. They avoidedchat about the war and Danny found out more about their drinking companions.Both displayed a genuine interest in how Danny and Arthur had made it to Egypt.

Around an hour later, Crickmay and Delson took off in the Chryslerleaving Danny and Arthur to consider their options.

‘Nice chaps,’ said Arthur. He nodded to the barman for more beers.‘I suppose we’re all in the same boat.’

Danny smiled but was not sure if he agreed. It was different formen like Crickmay and Delson. While neither were from the upper classes, theirbackground afforded them different opportunities. It would have beeninconceivable for Danny and Arthur to sally on up to the Sporting Club and jointhe polo set, much as Danny would have loved to. He’d been riding horses sincehe was a boy. He’d even stolen rides on the horses of Cavendish Hall whenthey’d been left out in the fields. Old man Edmunds had nearly caught him on acouple of occasion. In fact, he’d even given him a clip round the ear a fewmonths later at the Christmas carol concert. Danny smiled at the memory.

He thought of Bill Edmunds for a moment. He was the groundsman forCavendish Hall. The father of Jane Cavendish. The grandfather of Sarah Cavendish.Another world, yet Jane Edmunds had made the transition from groundsman’sdaughter to lady of the manor. It was different for women, though. She was abeauty. Any man in his right mind would have given up everything to be withsuch a person. Would the opposite apply? Could he ever hope to be with someonelike Sarah?

He thought again of Crickmay. He’d been an architecture student.Now he was lieutenant, dressed like a lord and driving around Cairo night spotsin a Chrysler car. Out in the desert he was a highly regarded tank man. He’dbecome one of them through his own merit. Anything was possible, realisedDanny.

Only death was certain.

-

They took a train journey back to El Alamein the next day. Themid-afternoon made the carriage hot, crowded and stuffy. Sitting opposite themwas Lieutenant Turner. He recognised Danny and Arthur.

‘Do you both have the same squadron leader?’ asked Turner.

‘No, sir. Major Miller is my squadron leader, sir.’ replied Danny,‘Captain Aston is my platoon leader.’

‘Captain Longworth for me, sir,’ replied Arthur.

‘Miller is a good man.’

Danny noted the shadow that had passed over Turner’s features atthe mention of Captain Aston. There was also the notable absence of anythinggood to say about the captain.

‘Have you spoken much with Captain Aston, Shaw?’

‘No, sir, keeps himself to himself. Funnily enough I’ve met hisbrother. Older brother that is. He married the cousin of Lord Cavendish. He’sthe lord of the manor, so to speak of where I come from.’

It was clear Turner had little time for Aston, so they moved on toother subjects. It was not appropriate to talk about any upcoming operations,so they confined themselves to more technical chat about the tanks.

The three hour journey passed quickly, perhaps too quickly. Thiswould be the last leave they would receive for many months, assuming they madeit through. They arrived at the station in El Alamein. The cries of porters,beggars and sergeant-majors were the welcoming chorus for those returning fromleave.

They marched from the station to the camp. Bathed in sweat andfighting the ever-present flies they joined their unsympathetic comrades at theleaguer.

‘Just time in time for a brew,’ cackled Craig to Danny.

‘Thanks,’ said Danny.

‘No,’ said Craig, ‘Just in time to make me and the rest of us abrew. Go on, holiday’s over. One other thing.’

‘What’s that? asked Danny.

I don’t want any sand in my tea, the last time…’

The sentence went unfinished as the cackling Ulsterman wasenveloped in a stranglehold by Danny and wrestled to the ground. Both werelaughing.

Chapter 2:Prelude (Sept – Nov 1941)

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Ladenburg (nr. Heidelberg), Germany, September 1941

Peter Brehme sat trance-like in his office listening to the clock.It was the only sound in the house. Leni, the house maid, had gone home. He wasalone. A sheet of paper lay on the desk. On top of the sheet sat a fountainpen. He stared down at the paper and thought of what to write. A tear fell ontothe paper. Slowly the paper absorbed the droplet into itself, spreading into asmall halo.

A wave of anger rose in him and he smashed his fist on the table.He despised weakness and its evil co-conspirators: sentiment and pity. Yet herehe sat, alone, feeling these emotions. His mind was thick with thoughts ofManfred and what he wanted to tell him. As if his boy hadn’t enough to dealwith.

Brehme felt the walls close in around him. He could hardly breathewith the pain he felt, and it surprised him. Was he not free? Free from what?In the next room was a coffin. Renata Brehme lay there. His wife of thirtyyears was dead. The tears fell freely now. The disease that had claimed hermind over the last couple of years had finally claimed the rest of her now.

Freedom felt like a cage, though, from which escape was impossible.Moments later he was on his feet and heading towards the front door. He forgotto put a coat on yet barely noticed the chill of the night air. His mind spunaround so much he hardly knew where he was walking. Passers-by acknowledged himbut he marched on, oblivious to their salutations.

The Platz was mostly empty. A few soldiers on leave, perhaps, andsome older couples walking their dog. Around him he saw shops boarded up. Thenames on the shops, Jewish names, told a story that Brehme did not want tothink about. Instead, he shut his mind to the obscene truth occurring all overthe country. He could do nothing to stop it. Gone were people he had onceconsidered friends. He hoped they’d made it to Britain, but he knew, deep down,many had not. The walls of the cage closed in on him again.

-

Leaves