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

hour to find the man he’d hit. He was at the far end of the camp from where the tank regiment was stationed. Danny saw him standing with a group of men. One of them was the man he’d pushed out of the way initially.

They watched him warily as he came over. Danny wanted to smile but knew it was a forlorn hope. He decided to get straight to the point.

‘I’m sorry. I feel terrible about what I did. It was cowardly,’ said Danny. He held his hand out.

The soldier nodded to Danny and shook his hand.

‘It was m…’

‘No, please, it was my fault,’ said Danny interrupting the apology that was about to come his way. ‘Don’t argue, with me,’ added Danny with a smile.

The group burst out in a relieved sort of laugh.

‘What do you boys do?’ asked Danny.

‘We’re sappers,’ said the soldier he’d hit. His name was Ian. He sounded like he was from the south west.

‘Mines?’ asked Danny. He saw the heads nod around him. ‘Well, you’re in the right place here. If it’s not us, then it’s them. They’re everywhere.’

‘Thanks for the good news,’ replied Ian and the group laughed again. ‘What’s the bad news.’

‘I’m with tanks. You’ll be laying out the red carpet for me and my mates,’ laughed Danny. The sappers responded good-naturedly with a very specific suggestion on what he could do with his tank.

He chatted with them for ten minutes giving a highly coloured version of his time in North Africa. There seemed little point in scaring them senseless. Then he made his way back to the tank. The late afternoon sun was not as hatefully hot as earlier. The flies were still awake, though, and as militant as ever. They attacked with their usual frenzied determination. Yet despite their aggravating attentions, Danny’s mood had lifted somewhat.

The area around the tank was empty. The crew were still bathing probably, and Benson was nowhere to be seen. Something on his kit bag caught Danny’s attention. There was a number of letters that had obviously just arrived. Sitting on top of them was the box containing his stripes. He opened it. They were still there. There was also a folded note. Danny read the note and found tears stinging his eyes.

He sat down and fished inside a bag belonging to McLeish. It took a few moments, but he found what he was looking for. The small sewing kit was contained in a leather pouch. He took off his shirt and unrolled his shirt sleeve. Placing the first set of stripes on his arm, he began to sew.

28

Alam Halfa Ridge – 15 Kilometres southeast of El Alamein, Egypt: 31st August 1942

It was almost beautiful. The night sky was lit up by parachute flares that twinkled wickedly down at the large force of Panzer tanks advancing slowly like dark ink on a blotter.

The going was much too slow. Any element of surprise was being lost with each passing minute and every mile closer to the enemy positions along the Alam Halfa Ridge. The atmosphere in Manfred’s tank was tense. Invariably the mood of the tank could be dictated by the tank commander. Basler was intense at the best of times. On this occasion he’d made things worse for himself by emphasising the previous evening that speed was of the essence. The Allies were likely to be dug in with land mines in front and an artillery shield behind. If they could reach them during the night, they might just catch them unawares.

That hope was lying in tatters as they saw the sun rise on a tank column that had barely made half of the fifty kilometres they had been tasked to march. The proof of this lay ahead. The German pioniers and infantry were being shelled by the Allied guns. The reception committee was up and ready to greet them. As ever, the calculation was that many would die but some would get through. Their lives only had value as a stepping-stone for others, reflected Manfred.

Sweat poured from the bodies of the men while they sat silently listening to the grind and whine of the wheels. Jentz was driving; his eyes fixed on the tank ahead. He flinched as an explosion sent rock into the air. One could never become inured to the explosions. Especially as they grew louder. Nausea and panic were Manfred’s constant companions at the moments just before battle. As soon as he was able to shoot back then a curtain descended on him. Every particle of his being was focused on one thing: survival. This could not be decided by him, of course. All he could do was to keep firing and hope. The minutes until he could start firing were a sick agony for him.

He looked at Basler and could see anger in the lieutenant’s eyes. A comment earlier had revealed the source of his anger.

‘Why didn’t we know about this minefield?’

The stop-starting, always weaving progress was likely to play hell with their petrol reserves. The rising sun would improve the accuracy of artillery fire and open them to aerial attack. The closer to the ridge they came, the further it was for the Luftwaffe to travel to protect them. It didn’t take a mathematician to work out they would soon be on their own. By 1030 they were mired in soft sand and fuel was running low.

‘We’ll have to halt and wait for fuel trucks,’ said Basler who had moved to Jentz’s shoulder to gaze down at the petrol gauge.

Kummel was of a similar mind and the march was halted. Manfred and Jentz took the opportunity to check the tank while Kiel made the coffee. The veteran driver could barely hide the shaking of his hands as he lit a cigarette. He smiled at Manfred in embarrassment.

‘This is going to be hell. I can feel it. We’re at our best when we’re moving fast.’

Manfred and Jentz listened to the battle raging a few kilometres ahead. They continued their checks