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

Manfred arrived at his tank. Books were highly prized items in the leaguer.

‘What are you reading?’ asked Manfred.

Fischer held it up.

‘The Interpretation of Dreams’ by Sigmund Freud.

Not all books were prized equally, though.

Manfred laughed when he saw it and asked, ‘Who did it? The butler or the husband?’

Fischer grinned, ‘You’ll have to work it out for yourself. But the candle is an important clue.’

‘Symbolic, I would have thought.’

‘Very. Tell me, Manfred, do you think of candles much?’

‘No. Caves, mostly,’ replied Manfred before continuing slowly in a deep, awed voice, ‘Caves in the middle of deep, dark forests.’

‘I think I know what your problem is, Manfred,’ concluded Fischer holding his index finger up as if he was teaching in class.

‘All our problems, my friend. I don’t think you’ve earned your Nobel Prize quite yet.’

Having mined this particular seam of all its innuendo potential they were quiet for a few moments. The desert remained an implacable, mute presence: the ultimate enemy. They both stared out at it.

‘You’re looking in the wrong direction,’ said Fischer at last.

‘How do you mean?’

‘The enemy is that way,’ replied Fischer pointing east.

‘Why don’t you stick to Freud and manipulating your genitals.’

Fischer erupted into laughter at this, joined by Manfred seconds later. It felt like they were the only ones making noise in the leaguer. The wave of hilarity passed soon, and they were silent once more.

‘What time is it?’ asked Fischer, setting the book down and sitting up.

Manfred glanced at his watch and said, ‘2140 almost.’ He shivered as he said this. The nights were definitely getting colder now. He pulled his coat around him.

There was a dull sound of a crump in the distance. Manfred frowned.

‘What was that?’

38

The cold night air was charged with anticipation. He shivered in the chill. There were so many other things a civilised man could be doing at this time. He looked around him. The ranks of guns and men were bathed in the light of the full moon overhead. He shivered again, this time at the thought of what these guns would do. Soon they would make quite a noise. He looked at his watch. Very soon, in fact.

He stared out into the darkness. Just ahead were the infantry and their sappers making ready to enter the minefields. Further ahead of them were the Germans sitting snuggly confident in the impassability of their minefields. And here he was, Lieutenant James Carruthers, former manager of a shoe factory, seconds away from unleashing the greatest artillery barrage experienced on the planet in nearly twenty-five years. Several miles of guns were to operate like one battery.

A curtain of shells would descend upon the enemy. Then it would move progressively forward by one hundred yards as the infantry advanced. While it had been light, they had used slide rules to derive where their shells would land on the map. Adjustments had been made to take account of the wind, the temperature, the barometric pressure and, of course, the shells themselves. A former shoe factory manager he may have been, but now James Carruthers was a professional and highly experienced artillery man. There was a swell of pride in his chest as he breathed in the cold air.

He looked again at his guns. All were in small pits, underneath camouflage nets. Not that anyone would be looking at this hour. The next day would be a different matter but the RAF would deal with anyone nosey or stupid enough wanting to check their position.

As Command Post Officer he was in charge of the two troops of four guns. He nodded towards the two Gun Position Officers to make ready. He heard one of them say ‘Take Post.’

A few seconds later their No.1 ordered, ‘HE, 117, charge 3, load.’

It was just like running a factory. Order, process. Leadership. It came so naturally to him. He watched as the twenty-five-pound explosive with 117 fuse was slipped into the breech and rammed home. The metallic clang indicated the breech block was shut. This process would repeat itself at every gun, all along the line. It reoccur six hundred times that night for almost every gun on the line. Over eight hundred guns were pointed at the enemy. Yes, Carruthers didn’t envy Jerry one bit.

He glanced at his watch.

The GPO, a sergeant, nearby said, ‘Zero one five degrees.’

The gunner made a final adjustment of his sight and then nodded to the GPO. Carruthers glanced at his watch and wished he’d lit his pipe.

‘Troop rest,’ ordered the GPO.

The men either side of the gun relaxed. But this would only be for a few moments. The work would begin soon. The silence that followed prickled like a fire just beginning to burn.

The watch said forty seconds to go. He nodded to the two GPO’s. The nearest one ordered his troop to take post. Carruthers stared at the watch ticking down when all of a sudden, he heard the crump of one of his guns.

He glared angrily at his sergeant.

‘Was that you, McMillan,’ hissed Carruthers angrily. What he said next was thankfully drowned out by the sound of a storm bursting over the Axis lines.

The Battle of El Alamein was underway.

-

Danny watched the sky light up. As far as the eye could see there were brilliant, blinding flashes followed split seconds later by thunderous explosions. His body vibrated as the terrible onslaught shook the earth. It felt like the world was tearing itself apart which, in a sense, it was.

The guns crashed incessantly while the tank crew watched the proceedings as if they were at a firework display. The horizon flickered and the earth shuddered in fear. It was relentless.

‘That’s the starter’s pistol,’ said Benson.

‘Poor sods,’ said PG. He was talking about the sappers and infantry men who would soon be marching forward into the minefields but, just for a moment, Danny wondered if there was thought there, too, for the men on the other side of the minefield.

It seemed strange to even consider sympathy. It was their fault that they