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

up. In a moment of refined cruelty from fate, the helmet fell off.

‘Bugger,’ said Tom through gritted teeth. He stared at the helmet temporarily paralysed by his stupidity.

‘Quick,’ said Bert. Panic gripped both of them for a moment then Tom scrambled to pick up the helmet. He wrapped the band around the tip of his gun.

Tom’s arm was shaking as he carefully raised the rifle up. Nausea choked his throat. His stomach was knotted in fear as he waited for the crump from the gun that would spell the last thing he would ever hear.

-

‘When, you’re ready,’ said Basler, irritably. He sensed there were other tanks behind him now and he didn’t want to be responsible for holding the advance up. The first comments were coming through on the radio telling him to hurry up.

Manfred pressed the firing button.

Nothing.

‘Not again,’ snarled, Basler. ‘I thought you’d fixed this.’

Manfred reddened in embarrassment but also anger. He swung around to Klef who immediately opened the breech and then slammed it shut again. This had worked in the past and there was no reason to suppose it would not do so again.

‘Fire, dammit,’ roared Basler. His eyes were blazing.

Perspiration matted Manfred’s forehead. He wiped his eye and checked his aim once more and then his thumb moved towards the trigger. Easy does it.

‘Stop,’ shouted Basler suddenly. ‘They’re surrendering.’

‘What?’ asked Manfred as he pressed the button.

21

Little Gloston: 21st June 1942

Stan Shaw heard a scream from the kitchen followed by the sound of crockery crashing to the floor. Sweat dripped from his face like a broken drainpipe in a rain shower. He wiped his forehead and wondered whether Kate had seen a mouse. He waited a moment and then heard nothing else. He returned his attention to the horseshoe.

It was just after midday and hunger pangs were just beginning to make their presence felt in his stomach. He was looking forward to eating the bread he’d smelled coming from the kitchen. He liked it toasted with butter piled onto it like bricks. He pitied the poor city folks with their heavily rationed access to food. This was never a problem in the country. Milk, butter, eggs were currency now. The thought of the butter melting on the toast made his mouth water in anticipation. It would be good to have a rest. His right arm ached from a morning spent trying to get horseshoes ready for the Leddings’ family. Not just his arm. His shoulder had been giving him trouble for the last year or two. The doctor had said it was the early onset of arthritis. Inevitable, he said, given the type of job he did.

‘Stan,’ said Kate, arriving at the doorway of the barn that doubled as a forge. Her eyes were red and tears were streaming down her face.

‘Tobruk. They say it’s fallen.’

Stan dropped the hammer. It hit the ground with a thud. He went to Kate and they hugged one another tightly. How long they stayed like that he didn’t know. Kate clung to him in quiet desperation. He wanted to say something to comfort her, but his own heart felt as if it had been smashed into pieces. Then he heard a voice behind him call his name.

-

Sarah Cavendish tore off her black riding hat and let light reddish hair fall freely over her shoulders. Watching her was Jeffrey, the young stable lad. He was younger by a couple of years and obviously in love with her. She smiled to him but made sure not to encourage anything beyond a feeling that was always likely to remain unrequited. Jeffrey took the reins of the horse and told her that it was good to have her back again.

‘It’s good to be back.’

Sarah wandered along the path to the kitchen entrance of Cavendish Hall. Curtis, the butler and his wife, Sarah’s old governess, stood up as she entered. Their faces were anguished. Sarah turned to Elsie. There were tears in her eyes. In the background the radio announcer was talking but Sarah’s ignored what he was saying.

‘Good Lord, what’s wrong?’

Curtis glanced at his wife and then answered her.

‘They’ve taken Tobruk. The Germans have taken Tobruk.’

Sarah felt her chest tighten. A cold fear gripped her and she nodded mutely. She left the kitchen and ran upstairs to the library. Her father, Henry, was on the phone. Standing beside him was her mother, Jane. Henry put the phone down when she entered.

‘You’ve heard?’

‘Yes, is it true?’

‘I’m afraid so. I’ve just been trying to find out more from Chubby at the War Office. He doesn’t know the full story yet,’ replied her father.

‘We should go into the village. To the Shaw’s and the Gissing’s,’ said Sarah.

Henry looked at his daughter and felt a swell of pride and something else. Fear. She was no longer the spoilt little girl that he’d once feared she would be. Instead, she was growing more like her mother each day. As role models went, Jane Cavendish was without equal. His fear was the fear of every parent in the land. What would happen if they lost? It was unthinkable and yet, at that moment, nothing else preoccupied him more than the thought of his son growing up and going off to war or his daughter being exposed to Nazi invaders. Irrational, perhaps, but the effort required to stop his mind spiralling downwards was immense.

‘Yes, Sarah’s quite right,’ said Jane looking at Henry. ‘We should go.’

They set off immediately towards the village. It was a beautiful afternoon; the sun brightened the green yet all they saw was grey.

The walk to the village was only a matter of minutes. The first stop would be the Shaw household. Jane gripped Henry’s arm when they came within sight. At the entrance to the forge were Stan and Kate hugging one another. There could be no question that they’d heard the news. Henry stepped forward through the gate.

‘Mr and Mrs Shaw.

Stan released Kate and turned to greet the visitor. He recognised the voice. Kate’s eyes