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

killed. They had all been circulating in the air around Danny. He’d forced them from his mind. But he’d heard everything. His body felt like it had absorbed the hits to the tank. Somehow, almost against any rational odds, they’d survived. But they’d come so close to suffering the same fate as so many other crews. He began to shake a little. Just ahead of him, McLeish was also shaking. The delayed shock to what they’d undergone finally overcame him. Danny touched McLeish’s arm.

‘Well done, there,’ said Danny to the young Scot.

The Scotsman smiled back and seemed to stop shaking. Danny felt better for having spoken to McLeish.

‘Does it get any easier?’ asked McLeish.

Danny laughed and said no. If anything, it was worse. The knowledge that you’d survived was a comfort only until you realised that you would soon have to face the same hell all over again. To his credit, McLeish laughed, too. Danny liked him. He was no older in years but much older in experience than the Glaswegian. However, Danny could see already that he had a genuine grit about him like so many of the Scottish battalions he’d heard about.

They rumbled forward at speed; the tracks crushing the rock into sand. The news from the other squadrons sounded grim. They’d slowed the enemy advance. At a cost. Benson, noted Danny, was quiet. The noise of shelling had receded, and he finally risked putting his head outside the cupola. Within a few seconds he was back inside.

‘Bloody hell,’ exclaimed the captain. ‘There’s a band of enemy tanks heading this way. Gregson, tell the CO to avoid the rallying point. We can’t fight them without ammo. Archie, traverse right.’

Gregson communicated the sighting of the enemy tanks. Roberts voice was calm as he spoke to the remaining tanks from the three squadrons.

‘Enemy tanks spotted at rallying point. Ignore previous order. Withdraw four miles north east to pre-arranged point.’

Danny frowned a question to PG which the big driver took to mean, correctly, where are we going?

‘Three miles south of El Adem. Brigade HQ has moved there. It’s just west of Sidi Rezegh.’

Danny didn’t need to be reminded of where El Adem was. His heart sank as he thought of the battle that had been fought over the airfield just a few months previously. They were back there; this time they were on the run. It was demoralising. He thought again of Phil Lawrence, burned alive inside a tank. His sacrifice had been utterly in vain.

Benson’s voice provided a welcome interruption. ‘The enemy tanks don’t seem to be chasing us, thank God. If only they knew what our ammo situation was, they’d have been over here like a shot.’

Danny looked through his telescope but could see only an expanse of hilly rock and sand. He gave up and sat back against the warm metal wall of the tank. No one spoke, each lost in their thoughts. Finally, Benson alerted them to the distant brigade HQ.

‘Once we’ve loaded the new shells, give the tracks a check,’ said Danny to McLeish.

Danny went up to the top of the tank and sat with Benson. He could see dozens of vehicles in the distance. Five minutes later they joined the remaining tanks of the regiment. It was a sorry looking sight. Danny climbed down from the tank and made a circuit round to take a look at the impact made by the German shells. They’d been clanging against the tank like hailstones. The Grant had withstood quite a beating. He counted nearly twenty hits. Benson joined him and both quietly marvelled at the punishment they’d received.

‘I’m glad I was in this beast and not one of the ‘Honeys’,’ said Danny after a low whistle.

‘Indeed,’ agreed Benson who then went off in search of Roberts.

The brigade was full of noise and activity as the regiment went about the job of refuelling and rearming. Danny helped McLeish load fresh shells into the tank while Archie Andrews and Billy Thompson did likewise for their gun. Then Danny and McLeish carefully examined the tracks on one side of the tank while Andrews and Thompson inspected the other. PG, meanwhile, had his head buried in the engine to check for any damage. He shut the hatch door triumphantly and patted the Grant.

‘Not so much as a dent.’

This was welcome news but elsewhere it was a depressing story. Only a handful of tanks remained from the regiment. A few were still operable and needed only re-arming and refuelling. Other tanks limped back and would need repair. One of those was Danny’s squadron leader, Major Witheridge. Benson returned to the tank after a hastily convened conference with Witheridge.

‘Right men, to the tank. Major Witheridge is taking over the ten remaining Grants. Major Joly is wounded. Captain Upcott-Gill will take over the six remaining Honeys. There’s not a lot we can do to help the French at Bir Hacheim I’m afraid, and I think that some of echelon has been captured. However, the major thinks that Jerry will be fairly stretched now and perhaps there’s a job to be done in attacking their supply lines. They’ll be running low on fuel, too, and won’t want to come too near our guns again. They know what to expect now.’

Danny took a deep breath and steeled himself as he climbed back into the tank. Increasingly he had to fight the feeling that this would be his coffin. Such thoughts were momentary but they were also habitual. Once an idea takes root it becomes difficult to excise. To fight it constantly risked it becoming an obsession. Instead, Danny realised he had to live with the knowledge rather than fight it. He knew he shared this feeling with every man who’d ever stepped into a tank, or ever would; from either side. The fear would remain with them, an unwelcome companion, on every patrol, on every engagement, every, bloody, day.

18

Bir Hacheim, Libya 27th May 1942

‘British Tanks straight ahead,’ called Basler from the cupola. The tanks had