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

to the station. Graf stood alone like a child without friends among while big boys milled around him laughing. It was like a party or worse; they were going on a hunt. Brehme looked at them and felt anger rise inside him. They were like an invading force in his police station, his town, his country.

Outside, night had fallen although it was still only early evening. Rain was falling steadily now. He could see people trooping home on the rain-washed streets. A tug on his arm forced him to turn around. He found himself staring into the face of Erich Sammer.

‘Hello, Peter,’ said Erich. Brehme wondered at what point he’d ceased to be Herr Brehme. Probably when the damn black shirt had been taken out of its packaging.

Brehme nodded and replied carefully, ‘Hello, Erich, it’s been a while. Where have you been?’ He wanted to add ‘avoiding the war.’ He decided against it. Their humiliation would come anyway. He hoped. Nothing in life was guaranteed. The risk remained great. One mistake, just one slip up and the whole shaky construct would collapse. Something small, something no realised had been left behind. That would be enough. The owners would be taken away, questioned, tortured probably. All would be revealed.

All.

A voice interrupted Erich before he could speak. It was Keller calling everyone to attention.

‘Gentlemen,’ said Keller, much to Brehme’s amusement. ‘We are about to embark on a mission of utmost importance. Our country has many enemies. These enemies are not just across sea and ocean. They exist within our own borders.’

Brehme thought of the little girl clutching her teddy bear. He shook his head and then stopped himself lest he be seen.

‘To the vehicles, men. Let us cleanse this town of our enemies. Let us make Ladenburg safe for the German people. Heil Hitler.’

There were close to forty men inside the reception area and more outside. Their heels clicked like a round of thunder and they chorused Heil Hitler in unison.

Brehme and Erich walked out into the cold night air. Rain was falling gently, and the sky was black as death. The air tingled with electricity. It felt like a storm was coming.

Erich smiled a little embarrassedly at Brehme. It wasn’t hard to guess why. Perhaps, somewhere inside lurked a sense of shame or, at least, an acknowledgement of his cowardice. You might be able to fool the world into believing your patriotism and your desire to fight for the Fatherland, thought Brehme, but deep down you know what you are. So do I. I was like you, once. He stared unflinchingly at Erich.

Go on. Ask me.

‘How is Manfred?’ said Erich. His voice sounded brittle.

‘The last I heard from him, he is well,’ replied Brehme carefully. ‘He’s still in Egypt. They’re near where the British are holding out. A place called El Alamein.’

-

The waiting was not the worst. It was preferable to fighting and dying, that much was clear. However, it brought home the unreality of it all for Manfred. Being stuck in an alien environment, fighting for a cause he no longer believed in. Any certainty he’d had about ultimate victory was gone now.

The brutal truth was evident to every soldier that had come up against the storm of violence that the Allies were capable of meting out. The enemy had finally discovered a truth that had been the lynchpin of the Afrika Korps success: integrating and unifying the strengths of the individual services towards specific objectives. No longer did the enemy operate so inefficiently and disparately. Manfred could see that the recent defeats, or strategic withdrawals to give them their proper due, were a portent of the future. A bigger, stronger enemy had finally worked out how to play the game. The result was inevitable. It might take years. Many would die. The outcome would be the same.

Not everyone shared Manfred’s view. This astonished him. The man who had taken over from Kummel, Lieutenant-Colonel Teege for one. He and Fischer called him ‘Willi’ when they chatted each evening. Fischer still believed victory was possible, but he was more qualified in his view than previously. The wounding had certainly disabused him of his aura of invincibility, but the arrogance remained untouched. Manfred was glad of this. It was entertaining to listen to on the cold nights.

The day of the 23rd of October was like so many of the others in the last few weeks. Sporadic shelling was ignored. It seemed the Allies were going through the motions as much as they were. This was unfathomable to Manfred. If they’d any idea how exhausted the Afrika Korps were they’d have attacked and thrown them out of Africa long ago. Now, gradually, they’d seen their strength recover. Not just personal physical and spiritual reserves but also additions in the form of reinforcements, tanks refitted and repaired. They were still outnumbered but that had never stopped them in the past. Perhaps Fischer was right to feel some confidence.

They were on patrol several kilometres from the leaguer. Every so often they would spot the armoured cars of the enemy but there was little they could do about it. By the time they had a fix on where they were, they were gone. More often than not they passed the deathly, blackened hulks of their comrades and, sometimes, their enemy.

The three wrecked tanks they passed now were all Panzers. The holes in the front told a story of a horrifying death. Shrapnel mincing the men inside. Someone had dug graves. Each was only two feet long and probably quite shallow. Not much more was needed for the parts of the men that had been found. Manfred felt a momentary nausea as he imagined the brutalising experience not just for those who had died but the poor men whose job it had been to bury what was left of them. Basler was silent, too, as they passed the graves. But there was no prayer for the dead.

They drove back to the leaguer.

Fischer was reading a book when