El Alamein by Jack Murray (spanish books to read .TXT) 📗

a pastel mauve laced with pink-tinged cloud. There was little by way of water or food, but they managed to find sufficient petrol to take them at least as far as Tobruk which was around three hundred miles away.

‘Were you able to identify any tanks that might be repaired?’

Danny shook his head.

‘Jerry is usually pretty good at locating and repairing any of our tanks that might still run. Damn sight better than us, if truth be told.’

Blair nodded but seemed unperturbed by the news.

‘Very well. We’ll camp nearby tonight then make a start tomorrow for Tobruk. I suspect we will run into Jerry at some point, but we have two things on our side. The desert is a big place and a division of Germans is pretty hard to hide; we’ll see him before he sees us. Also, we now have enough fuel to get us to where we want to go and, if we can ration sufficiently, enough water, too. I think by the time we hit the coast we’ll be fairly hungry but we’ll be alive.’

A melancholy peace descended with the sun. Nothing could be done for the men who lay like charred statues in their metal coffins. There was little said as they ate. The sights and the smells they had encountered were too vivid, too raw to countenance the idea of the usual ribaldry that threaded their conversation. They munched solemnly. Each alone in his thoughts. The thought of their sacrifice intensified the ache in Danny’s stomach.

The thrill of the adventure, begun just over a month ago, had been replaced by a vision of a future they all faced. They could see it in detail: black, arbitrary and indiscriminate. Death was a remorseless hunter and they were the prey. Danny thought of his father that night. He thought of the tortured guilt he’d lived with after seeing the carbonised bodies of men he’d fought with. Alone, under his overcoat, he wept for his father and for the men who’d died in terror and indescribable pain.

9

South of Msus, Libya, 25th January 1942

For two days the Regiment 8 tanks of the 15th Panzer division travelled over flatter land; then it grew hillier. The British were like a boxer facing a heavier opponent. They would trade punches then retreat. Stop, fight, retreat. It was so different from just a month ago. Then the Afrika Korps had been worn down by the relentlessness of the attacks. Now they were the ones who had the tail wind. It had all happened so quickly. The ground they’d fought for, died over and lost during December had been recovered in a matter of days. Manfred could barely believe how fortunes could change so quickly in war. He wanted to ask Kummel why the initiative had shifted so dramatically in favour of the Afrika Korps. He didn’t, however. The desire not to seem naïve outweighed his desire to learn.

None of the other men in the tank questioned the situation. They seemed happy that they were the ones dishing out punishment rather than being on the end of a beating. So they pushed on. A feeling nestled in Manfred that was somewhere between rejoicing at the reversal they’d engineered and fear, too. This slight tremor in his otherwise good mood was rooted in the suspicion that even Kummel did not know why they were making such rapid progress through Libya again. One could speculate, of course. No one did. They were winning. What else was there to know?

When things are going well you notice fatigue less. Success and failure affected your body as much as your mind. One was invigorating the other draining. The march forward had been far less wearying than the retreat in December. He’d never liked chasing back playing football either.

The morning of the 25th  of January began as so many others had in the last week. The regiment marched behind Kummel’s tank for eighty kilometres, utterly unopposed. It was as if the British had melted into the sand. Near the Msus airfield, which the British had captured a few weeks previously, they finally encountered some cursory fire from artillery.

‘What’s that?’ asked Hubbuch, almost affronted that they should be attacked.

Kummel called a halt and raised the binoculars to his eyes. His head and body were sitting on top, outside in the open. An explosion ripped the earth twenty yards away. He ignored it. Half a minute later another shell landed well in front of the tanks.

‘They’re running away,’ said Kummel. There was a hint of disgust in his voice. The Tommies were at an advantage at this range, yet they chose to run. He wondered what kind of men were leading the army opposing them. They seemed to have lost their stomach for a fight.

Manfred gazed through his periscope. He could see lots of dark shapes on the horizon but it was difficult to tell what they were and in which direction they were moving. The radio crackled. It was Cramer.

‘Attack them.’

Hubbuch needed no second invitation. The tank leapt forward with all of the speed and grace of a hunting tortoise. This fact was noticed by Kummel.

‘Can’t you go any faster, Hubbuch?’

‘Come down and see if you can do any better,’ came the reply.

Kummel ignored him and they pressed on through the softer sand.

‘How far, sir?’ shouted Beer. He was looking through his viewfinder but the dust being thrown up by the escaping British vehicles made distance judgement a challenge.

‘Seven hundred metres at least. Send one over. They’re within range,’ responded Kummel laconically. The captain stayed seated on top. Fire from the enemy had noticeably diminished. Manfred loaded the first shell. Beer fired immediately.

‘Short. Fifty metres at least.’

By now, the other tanks were also firing and scoring hits on the retreating artillery trucks. Suddenly an explosion rocked the tank. Manfred glanced around and saw that it had not caused any damage.

‘Traverse left. British tanks eleven o’clock.’

Another explosion sent a jet of sand shooting up into the air. Kummel jumped down into