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

The six pounders were beginning to inflict casualties though. The radio was sizzling with messages for help that would be ignored as they pressed forward. However, they were making progress. Within a few minutes the Panzers were past the first line of guns. Prisoners were being taken. Guns captured. Kummel came on the radio again.

‘British tanks retreating. Pursue.’

Jentz turned the tank eastwards in a direction parallel to the northern ridge. They followed a group of the 1st Battalion tanks led by Kummel. Manfred could not see the enemy tanks such was the dust being thrown up by the lead tanks and the remnants of the earlier sandstorm. The pursuit, at least, took them away from the direct line of fire they’d endured. As the light began to fade so did their hopes of engaging the remnants of the enemy tank regiment. By 1930 it was clear they’d escaped. They were in an advanced position on the edge of the Alam el Halfa ridge but without infantry support. Kummel gave the order to withdraw.

They were reunited with the rest of the division at 2100 just south of the Deir el Agram depression. A very tired crew staggered out of the tank and collapsed on the ground.

‘Ten minutes to do what you have to do,’ ordered Basler. ‘Then, Klef, get the food ready. No fires. Kiel examine the tracks. Brehme, check the guns and organise the ammo. Jentz, check the engine.’

They finished eating around eleven in the night. It was too late to go in search of Fischer for a chat and a cigarette. Instead, Manfred sank onto his bedding and was asleep before his eyes shut.

So ended the first day of the battle of Alam el Halfa.

29

Alam el Halfa, Egypt: 1st September 1942

Just after four in the morning, Danny sat with the rest of the crew listening to Benson. He’d just returned from a conference with the senior commanders. For once the mood was upbeat. They’d had a few weeks of rest at the Canal and now they were refreshed if not exactly raring to fight. No sane person was ever raring to fight. They were, however, more prepared this time. Danny had sensed a change in the mood of the regiment since the arrival of the new commander in North Africa, General Bernard Montgomery. He had taken command in the previous month.

His coming brought with it more reinforcements and the first Sherman tanks. Danny had not seen one, but the rumours were strong that it addressed the major problems with the Grant tank. It was all good news and Benson quoted the words of Pip Roberts on why the advantage was now, at long last, likely to swing their way.

‘I spoke to Major Joly. He told me that the colonel thinks this could be like Gazala again but with a crucial difference. We’ll be sitting in the path of the Panzer Divisions supported by a whole brigade. That means infantry and artillery will be backing us up. And let’s not forget the RAF. They’ll be taking pot shots at Jerry, too. We repulsed their first attack yesterday. We expect them to come back hard today.’

Major Crisp came by as Benson was speaking. The South African stopped for a moment and listened to Benson. Then he chipped in at the end.

‘I think we can count on them coming back hard. I gather they’ve got some new toys, too. The new Mark IV’s are carrying seventy-five-millimetre guns. Don’t get caught out thinking you can outreach them. We don’t know how many they have. Don’t take chances. Our job is to take over from the Notts Yeomanry at point 89. We may be required to support the next push. Is everyone ready?’ said the South African with a grin.

‘Yes, sir,’ chorused Danny and the other crew members.

They set off in confident spirits.

It lasted two hours

By eight they were confronted by around thirty Panzer tanks supported by anti-tank guns.

‘Looks like they’ve learned their lesson,’ said Benson, viewing with some dismay the sight of the assembled armour less than a couple of miles away. ‘They’ve brought in the big boys.’

A year spent fighting in a tank had taught Danny that the deadliest weapon they faced was the eighty-eight-millimetre gun. When that hit you, it was over. The guns on the tanks could only inflict damage at relatively close range, although the Grants were changing things.

The mood of confidence was now drenched in the cold sweat of fear. Then he heard what, for a tank man, was the equivalent of the US cavalry. Overhead came the hum of Allied bombers. Somewhere up ahead, life was about to become somewhat uncomfortable for the enemy.

-

‘Careful, careful, Marseille is in the air.’

Manning felt a momentary wave pass through him and then something else. Excitement. He’d heard so much about the German flyer but had not, as yet, faced him. He looked around at the other planes. There were a dozen fighters accompanying the bombers. The arid light brown land stretched endlessly below. Manning glanced at his altimeter. He was at 20,000 feet. Signs of the battle ahead at the Alam el Halfa ridge were visible. Plumes of smoke rose ominously into the sky.

The radio began to crackle with responses to the prospect of encountering Marseille. Manning decided not to add his voice to the growing hubris. He glanced across at Thompson. His mouth was moving in a dramatic fashion. He was an Al Bowlly fan. Probably ‘Goodnight Sweetheart’ if memory served. He’d once treated the squadron to a rather raucous version of it while flying back from a sortie.

‘Red Leader, any sighting of Jerry?’ asked Manning, hoping there was no trace of nervousness in his voice.

They ran into them two minutes later.

Manning could see the yellow tipped BF 109’s massed like a swarm of wasps. His heart began to beat faster and adrenalin coursed through his body. He was ready. A babble of voices could be heard on the radio. German voices. This happened from time