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

to take Manfred to school until the boy had reached the point when he no longer wanted his father to accompany him. It was too embarrassing. A crashing sadness descended on him when he realised how relieved he’d been by Manfred’s request. He’d actually been happy to no longer have to walk with his own son. He remembered how bored he’d been. The constant stream of questions the boy would come out with. The constant need to demonstrate to his father what he’d learned. The coldness he’d shown his own boy. The inability to think of anything to say to him. Resentment, even, that he had to drop the boy off in the morning.

Tears stung his eyes as he recalled the mornings when he’d seen him off. Often there was no ‘goodbye’. Just two strangers. What he would have given to have that time back again. He watched school children walking along in groups or singly towards the school. They looked so young and full of life. How many of their fathers were out in North Africa? Or worse, Russia?

He waited on a bench. His eyes scanned the road along which so many of the pupils were streaming. Finally, he caught sight of the person he’d come to see. Robert Sauer was walking with a couple of his friends. Holding his hand was a girl, perhaps around fifteen and chocolate-box pretty. Brehme recalled how he’d never had much of a way with the opposite sex. He feared Manfred had inherited the same gaucheness that women could so easily see. Then they would disregard you. Brehme shook his head at the memory.

As Sauer neared the school someone must have said something for he glanced in the direction of Brehme. A look of fear crossed Sauer’s face which as good as confirmed what was on Brehme’s mind. He motioned with his head for Sauer to cross over the road and join him.

The group stopped and for a moment it looked like they would all come over. Brehme shook his head and looked Sauer directly in the eye. Then Brehme rose from his seat and moved behind one of the large trees lining the road. Less than a minute later, he was joined by Sauer. Brehme held out a cigarette.

‘Light me,’ ordered the policeman.

Sauer said nothing but did as he was asked. He looked into the eyes of Brehme. A certain amount of confidence had returned to the young man. Not quite arrogance but he’d regained the composure briefly lost when he’d first seen Brehme.

‘They’re on to you,’ said Brehme. There was little point in pleasantries.

‘Who?’ asked Sauer, evidently confused. ‘they’ in his eyes was anyone old, who worked in a government job.

‘Don’t be stupid, son. The Gestapo. They know about you and your friends. The Pirates or whatever ridiculous name you all go under here.’

Sauer’s body stiffened into a defensive pose. A denial was sure to follow. Brehme had no time for this. He held a hand up which silenced Sauers’ protest before it had a chance to begin.

 ‘They have a file on you. Stop meeting with your friends, you will put them in danger and,’ added Brehme, standing very close to Sauer and looking him directly in the eye, ‘stop robbing the store. As of this morning there is a policeman working undercover there. You or friends will get caught. Stop now. Do you understand?’

Fear returned to the blue eyes of Sauer. Fear and surprise. Like a deer startled moments before the hunter pulls the trigger. Brehme was pleased that he’d caught the boy out. His suspicion had been correct. He and his friends were the ones responsible for the shop lifting. Sauer nodded sullenly. Not so proud-looking now, are you, thought Brehme with some satisfaction. He was rooted to the spot now and unsure of what he should say or do.

‘Go,’ ordered Brehme. ‘Remember, stop stealing. I can’t help you any more than this. They’re watching me too.’

Sauer nodded and turned to go. He jogged over the road to his friends who were waiting for him at the school gates. They all looked over towards Brehme but the policeman was already on his way back down the road. They watched him cast the cigarette aside.

23

Mersa Metruh, Egypt: 29th June 1942

Manfred studied his thumb. There was a blister on it caused by the day to day action of pressing the firing button. No one had told him that this would happen. He was in agony every time he fired. And it would only get worse.

It was evening. They’d taken Mersa Metruh. But Manfred couldn’t have cared less. It was just another name to him. After they’d taken Tobruk he thought they’d be given time to rest before making a renewed push. How little he knew! Rommel was relentless. A genius as a leader but he cared little for his men, thought Manfred sourly. They were cannon fodder for his surge to glory. It was no longer enough to know that he didn’t spare himself either.

Manfred was exhausted. Sunken eyes stared back at him in the hull of the tank . None more so than Basler’s. The tank commander was exhausted although he’d never admit it. They’d pushed on from Tobruk over the last week. They’d fought, and beaten, countless attacks from the never-ending supply of enemy armour. Little by little, the war of attrition was whittling them. There were fewer tanks now, and fewer men who could operate them. The British leaders may not have had the tactical brilliance of the German leader, but they worked along similar principles. Throw men and machines against the advance of the enemy until there was either no enemy left to fight or no soldiers to fight him with.

Kleff was sitting on his own as usual. He was not the most communicative of men. Perhaps he still felt overawed at being with experienced tank men like him and Basler. Manfred almost smiled at the thought of being a veteran. He noticed Kleff was holding