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

‘Sorry, sir,’ replied PG. ‘We got caught up on tactics.’

Benson raised an amused eyebrow at this. He studied PG for a moment and said, ‘Will we win?’

‘There’s a rumour going round that we’re going to pull out, sir,’ replied PG. Benson looked slightly shocked by this. He saw McLeish, Thompson and Andrews turn towards him and realised everyone was thinking the same. Gregson was snoring away by this stage. He looked at the wireless man and smiled. Then he turned to the other men again. They were clearly expecting him to confirm or deny the rumour. He nodded and replied resignedly, ‘Yes. We’re heading back east. Night march. We leave at 2200. That gives us an hour to pack up.’

Danny was aware that the captain was looking at him. It was as if he wanted Danny to say what was on his mind. Danny obliged.

‘And Tobruk?’

Benson’s face was taut with fatigue but also something else. Sympathy.

‘I know your brother is there, Shaw. I’m not any happier about this than you are but things are not going our way. The order has come from the very top. We can’t let Jerry capture any more prisoners or equipment.’

Once again, they’d been out thought. Danny refused to believe they’d been out fought. Never that. The worn out faces around him bore testimony to the spirit that was being whittled away not by the men of another army, nor by the hellish conditions they were being asked to fight in. Their defeat was solely due to inferior leadership.

‘I’m sorry, Shaw. Tobruk will hold out; you’ll see.’

Danny doubted even Benson believed that now. There was little point in arguing with him. He was a good man and Danny liked him. He nodded to Benson and rose to his feet on the pretext of taking a spade for a walk. In truth, he wanted to be on his own. He walked away from the leaguer to a spot where he could be alone with his thoughts.

It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He stared out into the night. The sounds of the enemy moving seemed like distant thunder. It never seemed to let up. There was a relentlessness to the way they waged war. The whole army acted in concert rather than as a collection of groups. No wonder they were winning. Danny was in no doubt that they would capture Tobruk

Thoughts of Tom lay siege to his mind, landing on him like shells. His fists clenched and he fought back tears of frustration.

But there was another feeling, too. It was the guilt of a man who was secretly relieved that someone has taken a decision that a part of him hoped would be made. The desire to be far away from violence and death, if only for a little while, was as undeniable as it was overpowering. A part of him wanted to believe that Tom and the rest of the men in Tobruk would hold out like they had before. That they would be relieved again. He knew this was an illusion.

They were abandoning the port to its fate. Tom and the others would fight. And they would be defeated. Would they see sense and surrender or keep on fighting to the last? His chest tightened so much that he could barely breathe. His brother’s face, then his mother’s, filled his mind. What would he say to her? To his father? The truth felt like a dagger stabbing his heart.

He was running away.

20

South west of Tobruk, Libya, 19th June 1942

Manfred hadn’t felt so tired since the dark days of December when they’d been withdrawing slowly from the Allied onslaught. Then, sleep had been a rare commodity. Every day had been fight then run with the occasional turn around and fight back thrown in to leaven the daily dish of retreat.

This time they had the momentum. They were driving forward and seeing the enemy turn tail. Yet it seemed to Manfred they would soon be in the same situation as the British and the Allies had faced six months previously. A relatively small army would be dominating thousands of kilometres of land, spread out like a fog over the sea. Their supply lines would be stretched to breaking point and targeted by the British whose piratical bent had not changed one iota since the days of Captain Morgan.

But Tobruk would change everything.

Even Manfred could see the importance of capturing the port. At a stroke they would have a place where new men and materiel could land and reinforce their push to rid North Africa of the Allies. The prospect of fighting through the Middle East was only marginally more appealing than struggling through the vast, frozen wilderness of Russia.

At this moment, however, all Manfred craved was to sleep for a week. All around him he saw men sleepwalking. Among them there were the few. They could still find the energy and the motivation to bark out orders. Manfred had long since come to accept he was not like them. They belonged to the next level of man’s evolution. Perhaps supermen did exist.

Basler was one such man. Inexhaustible, forever alert, forever committed to the drive for victory. The only thing Manfred was uncertain of was his commitment to the idea that that had brought them here in the first place. He suspected this had long since vanished in the face of another idea, infinitely more powerful. This cause was universal within the Afrika Korps and, unfortunately, shared by the enemy, too. The desire to survive. Every day was a battle to endure against the twin enemies they faced: the Allies and North Africa, itself.

Manfred looked at the sores on his leg. There were some mild shrapnel wounds from a few days ago that had barely been treated. They weren’t painful or serious enough to prevent him fighting but they irritated him continually. His body could not self-heal because its energy and spirit