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

approaching swell of German armour. They made a fearful sound like a throbbing growl. The ground seemed to tremble beneath them.

‘Apparently not,’ observed Benson. The two men could have been chatting at Simpsons over breakfast. A shell exploded fifty yards in front of their tank, a gout of sand flying twenty feet into the air. Benson raised one eyebrow and added, ‘Looks like the party is starting. Shaw, can you send them a few invitations?’

Danny pressed the firing button a split second later. The firefight began. The tank was rocked time and time again by shells. Explosions ripped the atmosphere all around. After only a few minutes the air was an acrid blue with smoke and cordite.

‘C’mon, Danny,’ said Andrews, ‘They’re getting closer. Can’t you do something?’ He took off his spectacles and polished the mist from them.

‘You can have a go if you want,’ replied Danny as he squeezed another shot off.

‘I see myself as more of a sniper, old chum. I’ll leave the wild lunges to you and that big gun of yours.’

A loud explosion to their left told them that one their tanks had been hit. There wasn’t time to see who it was or if anyone had survived. Meanwhile, the Germans kept advancing, impervious to the losses they were sustaining.

The quick fire and manoeuvre tactics employed by the Panzers limited the impact of the long-range shelling from Danny and the remaining Grants’ seventy-five-millimetre guns.

‘The bastards won’t stay still,’ said Danny through teeth that were rapidly becoming too clenched to speak. ‘This damn gun is useless. I can’t move it to hit them.’

‘I think Fritz has worked this out,’ observed Benson drily. ‘Archie, are they in range yet?’

The crump of the thirty-seven-millimetre was Andrews’ answer.

‘That’s a yes then,’ said Benson but there was an edge to his voice now. The Germans were closing and with each yard the intensity of fire grew. The radio was ablaze with communications between the tanks. The regiment was losing tank after tank

‘I make them five zero, zero yards now,’ said Benson on his mic. Whether he was providing firing instructions or sending a coded message to withdraw, Danny couldn’t decide. Behind them, Allied twenty five pounders were making more noise than impact. But Archie Andrews’ AP Armour Piercing shells were making their presence felt.

‘PG, start to move back. Slowly,’ ordered Benson.

Six Grants backed away from the ridge and disappeared into the night that had fallen seemingly without anyone, least of all the Germans, noticing. Danny listened closely to the radio traffic for news of the tanks that had been hit. Then his heart froze when he heard the following message.

‘Picked up survivors from Jenkins’ crew.’

This was Arthur’s tank.

-

A mood of despondency was descending on the men. A mute sense of defeat lay heavy in the air. A tacit feeling that it had all been avoidable. The limitless courage of the 8th Army was simply not enough when confronted by an enemy that was better prepared, better organised, and better led.

Danny was not immune from this despair nor silent in his anger as he watched the regiment being disbanded then reformed from one day to the next. The number of working tanks whittled. The men were unable to overcome the challenges posed by the enemy, the desert and by the inept leadership that was endemic from Gazala all the way to Cairo and beyond.

‘C’mon, Danny lad, I thought you’d be happy to get out of this hell hole for a while,’ said PG as he and the crew discussed the rumour that they would be returning towards Alamein.

‘If we leave, then Tobruk will be on its own again,’ pointed out Andrews. His round, rimless glasses glowed like two orbs in the lamplight.

‘They can hold out for a few weeks. They did it before,’ said Gregson.

Danny stared into the distance and replied coldly, ‘Weeks? By the time we go back to Alamein and regroup, months will have passed, and you know it. Then our Colonel Blimps will just figure out a new way to fail against the Germans. They’ve been doing it since World War I and they’re still doing it now.’

Andrews glanced towards PG and Gregson to warn them to talk about something else. Although the crew were close and had come through so much together, the subject of Tobruk was invariably guaranteed to stoke tension.

‘Well, if it’s all the same to you, Danny, I like my skin the way it is. And if we’re told to hop it tomorrow, I for one, will be singing ‘Show Me the way to Go Home’ all the way back.’

Even Danny smiled at this but felt a crushing weight descend on his chest. He hated the thought of facing an enemy whose rumbling tanks could still be heard in the distance. He hated abandoning Tom even more. For the last week they’d been involved in a series of scuffles with tanks, artillery and soft skinned vehicles. It seemed to Danny the Germans were intent on avoiding the fight as much as they were. He suspected the encounter on the first day had been as costly to them as it had been for the Allies.

Tobruk would probably be abandoned to its fate once more. There was nothing he could do except sit and rage at the weak leadership and try to deny the sense of relief he felt inside.

He thought about Tom. A wave of guilt rose up and threatened to overwhelm him. He wanted nothing more than to take the tank and join him and the other men in Tobruk; to fight it out side by side. If they were to fall then, at least, they’d be together when it happened. Another other part of him recognised the lie he was telling himself.

The news on Arthur was only marginally better. He’d escaped the tank but had been badly burned. No one could tell Danny just how badly. His hands gripped one another in knuckle-white frustration. At that moment Captain Benson returned to their bivouac.

‘Lights out,’