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

while engineers were rolling communication lines. Danny’s mind was spinning at the logistical endeavour required. But reassured, too. The memory of the confusion of Operation Crusader was still too vivid. Then, they had made an uncoordinated attack and fought blind for the first week or so. The lesson had been learned. Now he could see infantry and armour side by side. Each had its role to play. Together they presented a greater threat to the enemy than they would individually.

All along the ridge there were soldiers and tanks from other regiments. The Nottingham Yeomanry on one side, the Staffordshire Yeomanry on the other. And still they surged forward through the narrow lane created by the sappers. Military policemen directed traffic like it was a busy high street. But the firing from the Germans was hitting its mark too. Benson gave the order and soon Danny was exchanging fire with the enemy shot for shot.

Montgomery, according to Benson, had predicted a war of attrition akin to the fighting a few decades previously. It looked to Danny like this was going to prove correct. This would not be a single knockout blow. It would be fought inch by inch, sometimes at a distance, like two boxers wary of each other; probing and jabbing, looking for an opening or a moment of lapsed concentration. Other times the confrontation would be resolved by a bayonet.

There they sat, unable to move. Both sides had one another pinned down now. Anyone unwise enough to move around was swiftly disabused of this notion by the chatter of machine gun fire. To this was added the growing heat of the day and the flies to torment them further.

‘What happens now?’ asked PG. He already knew but wanted to hear it either as a punishment or reassurance.

‘We’re still short of where we should be,’ explained Benson. ‘They’ll want us to move forward again tonight. Our job is not to get involved with long range duels. They want us in amongst them.’

PG and Danny exchanged looks.

‘Can’t wait,’ said the Yorkshireman sourly.

‘Shaw, kick Wodehouse,’ said Benson. ‘That’s an order.’

41

The order came through at 0630 to move forward. Basler nodded to Jentz. The driver started the engine. The tank began its advance. Outside they could hear the sporadic chatter of machine gun fire and explosions, but the barrage had ended a couple of hours earlier. They were all groggy from lack of sleep. Manfred felt a weight behind his eyes. His mind and his movements felt heavy. He sensed a long day lay ahead.

Kiel was on the radio constantly, keeping the tank informed of the attack as it developed. It was now apparent that the Allies had made a major push across a wide front. Elements of the 21st Panzers and the Italian Folgore and Pavia regiments were facing a concerted attack to the south.

‘The Allies are mired in the minefield,’ said Stiefelmayer over the radio. ‘We can kill this attack off before it begins.’

As highly as Manfred regarded Kummel’s replacement, he’d always found him a little too gung-ho for his liking. He and ‘Willi’ Teege, the regiment commander, were very alike in this regard. Teege had chosen to situate himself with Stiefelmayer for the start of this engagement. Manfred, with a sinking heart, anticipated cavalry charges towards the stranded Allied tanks. It made sense but, as ever, it risked high losses. This was something that they could ill afford. Unlike the Allies. Their reinforcement capacity was finite. It seemed an obvious point to him, and he found their utter conviction in the efficacy of this style of attack unfathomable.

It was not long before the first Allied tanks appeared in their view. At first, they encountered the Grants. However, the congestion on the Allied side made them an easy target.

‘Fire,’ ordered Basler.

Manfred pressed the firing button and his battle had started. A few stray shots and then he found his distance. The initial hits bounced off the heavy frontal armour but as they closed in, the impacts began to tell. One after another of the Grants brewed up.

Then they heard Stiefelmayer exclaim, ‘What the hell is that?’

Basler pinned his binoculars to his eyes to see what had caused the battalion leader’s surprise. Then he saw it. The new Sherman tank was distinctive from the Grant. Its big gun was in the turret rather than the side.

‘They have a new tank,’ said Basler.

Manfred looked through his gun sights and saw it for the first time. A feeling of desolation overwhelmed him. The enemy would not stop evolving their armour. They had the resources to create, produce and send out these new machines while the Panzer regiments existed inside machines that were held together by hardly anything more  than glue and limitless courage.

But the Shermans were stuck like the other tanks in the Devil’s Garden. A few of the enemy tanks tried to disperse but they drove into the mines which began to wreak another type of hell on them. Tank after tank was destroyed. Barely a couple of the German tanks had suffered any damage. The attack was halted, and the enemy withdrew until they were around three kilometres back.

But Manfred sensed that they were facing a greater threat than they’d ever faced before. The opening encounter had set the tone for the next few days. Every night the Allies would bombard the German and Italian positions denying them any opportunity to sleep except in short bursts. The next morning, they would throw tanks forward in attack all along the line. Time and again the Panzers would absorb this attack and inflict far more casualties than they suffered themselves. But day by day they were being worn down. Lack of sleep was one thing but soon they would, once more, run out of petrol and ammunition.

-

The war of attrition had begun. The wrestling over every ridge and wadi. The death toll rose like mercury in the hot African sun. Day and night blurred for the combatants because the fighting during the day