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

then wasn’t war the suicide business on an industrial scale? What else would make a man drive at speed towards gunfire?

These thoughts raced through Manfred’s mind as his eyes tried to focus on the blackness around them. He could see nothing, but he could almost hear the sound of sand scraping over sand in the gentle breeze, so heightened were his senses.

The crack of rifle fire startled Manfred but he was quick to react. He fell forward and crawled towards a machine gun. Basler was on his feet and over by the tank to pick up another gun.

The Panzer crew began firing shots randomly into the darkness, but it was difficult to source where the firing was coming from. More gunfire was exchanged.

‘Over there,’ came a shout.

They began to concentrate their fire on the area identified. Soon the sound of gunfire abated as they realised that the enemy had driven off. Manfred sank wearily to the ground and knew that this would only be the first of a number of harassing confrontations. It was going to be a long night and an even longer day tomorrow.

Later that night the news came from Basler that they’d all been expecting.

‘We’re pulling back.’

31

Ladenburg, Germany: 5th September 1942

Peter Brehme watched Keller arrive at the station. The Gestapo man was silhouetted against dark grey cloud. It had gotten to the point where Brehme no longer disguised his contempt for him. Keller was equally disinclined to hide his feelings. Gone was the veneer of insincere flattery used by each. It was a war without arms. The choice of weapons was nuance, tone of voice and facial expression. Outwardly, their relations seemed courteous. But some knew the real story. However, even those exposed to the two men on a daily basis could barely gauge the level of mutual loathing.

Each day was a battle for Brehme. The daily trek into the office. The daily humiliation of sitting at a small desk while Keller lorded it over him at his antique oak table. Caught in the middle was Jost Graf. It was cold comfort for Brehme to see the daily degradation the little man experienced at the hands of the Gestapo man. He had become a weapon for Keller to use against Brehme. So much so, that Brehme was inclined to forgive the little man’s role as a spy.

This morning was as typical as any in confirming Brehme’s belief in the decay at the heart of Nazism. Their interests lay not with the future of the Fatherland or the welfare of the people. The only thing that mattered, Brehme now realised, was the process by which they were enriching themselves. As Chief of Police, even he was powerless to stop the biggest criminal gang of them all.

The atmosphere in the office was invariably dictated by the mood of Keller. Brehme could see when he arrived that it was going to be a long day. No one smiled anymore except when Keller did. And then it was counterfeit. A mere imitation of a sentiment that they were gradually losing the ability to feel.

The early morning pleasantries usually marked the end of anything like civil interaction. The poison soon began to leak from the pores. As ever, it was Keller who started things off.

‘Have you seen, Graf? Our brave boys are having to turn tail. Rommel has failed yet again.’

The remark might have been taken solely as a slight on the leadership qualities of Field Marshall Rommel. However, Keller was adept at making jibes against Manfred and the Afrika Korps though various guises. Rommel was a favourite Trojan Horse for his real intent. Graf glanced at Brehme and then back to Keller. Even he could read the signs by now.

‘Perhaps he is regrouping,’ smiled the hapless policeman.

‘Regrouping you think? He’s spent the last three months regrouping since we took Tobruk.’

Brehme noted sourly that it was always ‘we’ when things were going well.

‘Rommel has to go. And examples need to be made of the men who are running away like rabble. What do you think, Peter?’ Keller said this with a smile that would have done justice to a fox reviewing dinner options in a chicken coop.

‘I think you’re right, Ernst. I would love nothing more than to see these men forced to make a real contribution to winning the war.’

Keller’s smile faded slightly. He suspected Brehme was not finished. The insolence of the policeman was growing by the week.

‘Yes, a spell working in the Gestapo would show them what it really takes to defeat our enemies.’

Brehme was studying a report as he said this so could not see the hatred burning in the eyes of the Gestapo man. He, too, had become proficient in land mining his flattery with insults.

-

‘Where are we going, sir?’ asked Graf, nervously. They were driving out of town into the country. Brehme glanced at Graf and decided to take him into his confidence. If Graf reported back to Keller it was of no consequence to him.

‘We’re going to the Kramer farm.’

Graf looked perplexed for a moment, grasping to connect the name to something he knew. Brehme waited.

‘The cattle farmer?’

‘The big cattle farmer,’ smiled Brehme.

‘Why?’

‘Black market,’ said Brehme, simply. He enjoyed the look of shock on Graf’s face. Oddly, he quite liked the little man. He was not a bad sort. Not stupid but unquestionably naïve. And weak. Sadly, very weak. But could he really be blamed for this? He’d avoided active service because of his eyesight. He was married with a child on the way. What a world to bring a baby in to.

Of course, Graf was going to live in fear of Keller. If he thought about it long enough, he realised that he was living in fear of the Gestapo man, too. So what if Graf was reporting on Brehme’s activities? There was nothing to reveal except an honest policeman doing his duty. It might work to his favour. After all, he’d see what a good police work looked like. There could be