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

item piqued his interest. The news announced that Lieutenant-Colonel Hans Cramer was to return to Germany. Manfred had written about Cramer in glowing terms several times. The return of such a man to Germany was a worry. He wanted Manfred surrounded by the very best leaders. This was his best chance of surviving the War. He wondered what was to become of Cramer. Would he be sent on that fool’s errand in Russia?

Brehme sat back in his chair. He felt impotent. Restless. There was a war going on to which he was contributing nothing except cynicism and doubt. His son was fighting for an idea of nationhood that appalled him. It was all wrong and he could do nothing about it. From tomorrow he would, effectively, become subordinate to a young idiot who represented everything that had gone wrong with his country. Something on the radio broke into his reflections.

The radio announcer was mocking the Americans at this point in the broadcast. This blackened Brehme’s mood further. History would repeat itself, he was sure. No country could take on the British Empire, Russia and the United States and expect to win.

His thoughts turned to the Edelweiss Pirates. He doubted they had much, if any, presence in the town of Ladenburg. Of their political philosophy he knew little. This wasn’t good enough. His curiosity was getting the better of him. He resolved to find out more.

At that same moment he realised, with some shock, that he would do as little as possible to hamper them in their program. The enemy wasn’t across the channel or the Atlantic Ocean. It was here, within. Sitting in power. Once more a wave of frustration engulfed him. He hated his own weakness. He wanted to act but knew not what he could do. But he had already started. The first act of rebellion always begins in the mind. Peter Brehme was about to embark on something his upbringing, his culture and his profession had trained him to abhor.

14

Tobruk, Libya: 23rd May 1942

‘Good Lord,’ said a voice just in front of Danny. ‘Danny? Danny Shaw?’

Danny was lying on the beach alongside his brother, Tom, and Bert Gissing. He looked up and saw a man standing over him. The man was silhouetted against the sun; the face was indistinct, but the voice was familiar. Danny shielded his eyes and slowly the features of the man took shape.

‘Bloody hell,’ laughed Danny. ‘Dick.’ Danny immediately leapt to his feet and shook hands with Dick Manning. ‘Boys, this is Dick Manning. He was with the RAF.’

‘Still with them as far as I know,’ laughed the airman.

Introductions made, Manning sat down and filled in Danny on his movements since they’d last met.

‘As you correctly surmised, I was sent to Malta last April. Incidentally, you know that Al Bowlly was killed soon after that show?’

‘Yes,’ said Danny sadly. There was silence for a moment then the airman continued.

‘Malta was quite a show. Not sure how I ever made it through. The Nazis chucked everything at us, Danny, and I mean everything. When I arrived, they slackened a bit. Russia, I think. Well, if that was their idea of slack then I’m jolly glad I wasn’t there from the start. It felt like the Messerschmitt’s were attacking every day. But we were gradually building up our strength. More planes, more men. It meant we could fight back rather than take it on the chin; in fact, soon we were able to have a go at them and their convoys.’

‘Thanks,’ said Danny and meant it. They had heard of the devastating impact the RAF were having on enemy shipping.

‘Of course, those German blighters weren’t going to take this lying down and they came back at us. They had better planes than us.’

‘Seems to be the way,’ said Danny sourly. ‘Their tanks are better, too.’

‘Really? Well our Hurricanes were badly matched against their Messerschmitt’s and Stuka’s. They hit us hard last summer. We were reeling for a while, but when the Spitfires arrived in March, we gave them something to think about. With Spitfires, we’re more than a match for Jerry. Unfortunately, they kept bombing the planes on the ground. Thankfully more Spits have arrived. The tide’s turning.’

‘When did you come over?’ asked Danny.

‘Yesterday,’ laughed Manning. ‘I thought I’d relax a little. I think I’ve earned it.’

‘Sounds like you’ve earned a beer,’ pointed out Bert.

‘Best idea I’ve heard in a while,’ grinned Manning.

-

By early evening, Danny was back at the tank leaguer eight miles north of Bir Hacheim. He was heartened by the arrival of some new tanks. Over a dozen Grant tanks and another ten Stuart tanks sat proudly waiting for their new owners. The Grant tanks still gave Danny some cause for worry but they were at least an improvement. He spied Arthur amongst the bunch of men examining them.

‘What do you think?’ asked Danny, looking at the new arrivals.

‘Not much,’ said Arthur who was world weary of these things at the best of times. ‘I mean, do they think that Jerry just comes at us head on? I’d love one of the buggers who designs these things to come and spend a day fighting. They’d buck up their ideas pretty sharpish, I suspect.’

The conversation around the tanks suggested the men were of a similar mind. It quietened a little when two officers appeared and then the posture of the men straightened when they realised who it was.

Lieutenant-Colonel ‘Pip’ Roberts had seen the tank men looking around the new arrivals and went over to hear their thoughts. He tapped the front of the first Grant with his stick.

‘What do you think, Cyril?’ said Roberts to Major Cyril Joly.

‘You know what I think,’ replied Joly. Danny noticed Joly motion with his eyes towards the men. Roberts smiled and nodded. He turned to the men.

‘We’ll put these through their paces tomorrow,’ he announced to the men. ‘I think the enemy will find these a tougher prospect than what they’ve faced until now.’

Danny had to