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

think about my sister. I’ll stick your head inside one of those eighty-eights.’

‘Tell me about your shoulder again?’ asked Manfred.

He earned a punch in the arm for this less-than-subtle reminder that Fischer owed him his life. It’s an odd comment on the psyche of the male that such a reaction to bravery displayed was not only considered acceptable but was actually embraced. Anything else would have been as embarrassing for the speaker as it would have been for the listener. War was nothing more the natural extension of man’s inability to communicate meaningfully.

‘How is your father?’ asked Fischer. This was an area where the two boys had shared an almost identical upbringing. A patriarchal household ruled by fear and discipline. It bred the society that had arisen in the Fatherland. Obedience was demanded and brutally achieved.

‘My father cannot say too much because he has the Gestapo in the office. They probably read his letters.’

Manfred stopped for a moment to ponder this thought. The Gestapo read my father’s letters. He shook his head and the two boys exchanged looks.

‘This is what we’re fighting for,’ said Fischer bitterly, giving voice to the thought in both their minds.

Manfred laughed but without any real humour, ‘So it seems. I don’t think I care who wins. As long as I survive that’s all that matters.’

‘I wonder what will be left if we lose,’ said Fischer, reflectively.

‘Your sister,’ laughed Manfred, rolling over to avoid the blows that were certain to rain down on him.

-

A few days later Manfred and Basler were out on morning patrol. They sat atop of the Panzer looking at the pioniers working on the minefield. There were dozens of soldiers stretched out as far as the eye could see. They were all stooping like old men planting mines and booby traps for the expected assault by the Allies.

‘They’re calling it the Devil’s Gardens,’ said Basler. He said it quietly and, for a moment, Manfred wondered if there was a lurking sympathy for the poor men that would be caught in this mesh and obliterated without trace. ‘Five kilometres long, maybe six kilometres deep. I don’t envy anyone going through that.’

Manfred looked at the horseshoe shape the pioniers had adopted. It looked as if they were creating entry points past the wire for the Allied soldiers; lulling them into a false sense of security on the location of the mines before they sprang the booby traps and touched the mines. Some of the booby traps looked horrifically treacherous. Some as big as the 250-pound bombs used by bombers. They were being laid out in a chessboard fashion with trip wires set carefully nearby.

The sight of the operation left Manfred spellbound. This was broken only by the sound of a lone plane overhead. The two men looked up at it.

‘Maybe we have some mail,’ said Basler simply. Manfred wondered who would be writing to the lieutenant. He’d never mentioned any family aside from the wife who’d left him. They watched the plane descend and land near to the leaguer before returning their attention to the desert and the sky. It occurred to Manfred that the Allies could have done significant damage to them if they’d launched an attack on the belts that were being mined. Perhaps the Allies were doing likewise.

‘Captain Kummel is returning to Germany,’ said Basler after a few minutes had passed. He smiled at the surprised look on Manfred’s face.

‘Why?’ said Manfred. This seemed extraordinary to him. ‘The Lion of Capuzzo’ leaving just before the anticipated Allied offensive.

‘He deserves to, Brehme. It makes sense,’ was Basler’s reply. ‘Think about it. We have thousands of men out here battling forwards, then backwards then forwards again. It seems like it will never end unless you are killed, maimed or captured. The men will see that there is a way back home. It suits our leaders to have real life heroes coming home and inspiring, teaching the next wave of men who come out. I wonder how long it will be before our friend up there returns home.’

They both looked up and saw a plane rising into the sky. There was no question in Manfred’s mind that Basler was referring to Marseille. One hundred and fifty confirmed kills, they said.

The two men followed the aircraft as it rose into the clear blue sky. He had been joined by a number of other Messerschmitt fighters. There were now half a dozen of them heading towards enemy lines. They watched silently as they flew out of sight.

Around half an hour later they saw five planes return and land. Such was war. There was a momentary sadness, then they returned to scanning to the endless nothingness.

Manfred felt a touch on his arm from Basler a few minutes later. The sixth plane was returning. It was trailing black smoke. There was not the usual buzz of the engine. It was coughing and spluttering like a bronchial old man. At a certain point the engine stopped. The pilot was gliding back towards the German lines. All around them, activity stopped. The pioniers looked up at the sky along with the men on the other tanks. The plane was around four hundred metres from the ground. It seemed impossible that it could land in such a condition. Red flames were pouring from the plane.

‘Come on,’ said Manfred to himself. ‘Bail out you fool.’

The engine started again as the pilot decided he was too high to glide down quickly enough. Then a figure emerged from the plane. He seemed to hit against the wing and then he was falling. No parachute opened. The figure fell four hundred metres and hit the desert sand watched by the soldiers in silent shock.

Two hours later they returned to the leaguer. The memory of what they’d seen was still scored on their minds, muting conversation. Later that evening one of the supply drivers came past clutching the post. Manfred looked up at the red rimmed eyes of the young man. He frowned a question as