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

soon covered in a thin film of dust they as the clanked and shuddered their way forward towards the sound of gunfire and shelling. Within minutes, plumes of sand being thrown up by the tanks obscured Danny’s view and he wondered how it must have felt for the poor infantry blokes following or, in some cases, riding on the tanks.

The pace of the advance was slightly above that of paralysis. Barely one hundred yards covered in three minutes. At this rate it would be darkness by the time they reached the enemy despite the fact they were only a matter of a few miles away. PG worked the steering leavers furiously, still trying to test their manoeuvrability. Danny had never seen him so intent before. Benson remained standing with his chest and head exposed through the hatch, binoculars were fixed to his eyes.

Danny caught sight of a couple of infantry men walking alongside them. They actually overtook the tank unthinkingly. Both were smoking and chatting like they were on their way to the factory to clock in.

Further forward, the sound of battle continued unabated. The aerial bombardment made the loudest sound. Heavy bombs were landing on the Axis positions, distant earthquakes renting the desert apart.

The two infantry men continued their morning walk, oblivious to the hell they were heading towards. Then they stopped. The tank drew towards them. Danny wondered if this was a realisation that it was time to take cover behind the tank. No, apparently. They were just stopping to light another couple of cigarettes then they resumed their morning stroll.

Smoke and dust became heavier now and Danny lost sight of the two men. The smoke and the growing volume of battle made Danny’s skin prickle with anticipation. A fluttery feeling in the pit of his stomach was not solely due to the vibration of explosions. It wasn’t quite fear, more a heightened alertness and, perhaps, excitement.

The tank was slowly becoming immersed in the coiling black smoke. The smell of cordite permeated the tank. The two soldiers were out of sight now, probably electing to march behind the tank screen rather than out in the open.

Benson ducked inside and rubbed his eyes. He shook his head but said nothing. He didn’t need to. Up ahead Danny could see the first charred evidence of the onslaught suffered by the first tanks breaking through. The smell was no longer just petrol and cordite. The smell of burnt skin has a special quality all its own. The charcoal-like stench seemed to cut through all the odours, sickening everyone inside the tank.

‘Bloody hell,’ said PG. He was the only that could speak as they passed burned out tank after burned out tank.

Bloody hell indeed.

45

Tel el Aqqaqir: 2nd November 1942

Manfred did not know how they managed to evade the shells and the shot pouring around them. Such was the intensity of fire, it put out of his head the fact that Fischer and the wounded captain, Stiefelmayer were riding outside. Even more astonishing was the sight of so many wrecked tanks and men retreating. The mix of men from both sides and the burnt out tanks limited Manfred’s options to return fire although Kiel was firing with abandon on his machine gun.

The mayhem and the obstructions saved Manfred’s tank. That and the fact that almost all the Allied tanks had been destroyed. Under darkness they had penetrated deeply and overrun so many German positions. The arrival of daylight had turned the tide back for the moment in favour of the Germans and Italians. They now had a visible target. The combined efforts of the eighty-eights and the tank response had halted the first attack. The second wave had already begun though.

‘How far?’ shouted Jentz. He was effectively driving blind.

‘Half a kilometre. Swing left,’ ordered Basler, who was acting as Jentz’s eyes as the tank retreated back towards the supply echelon. Basler gazed down at Stiefelmayer and the other two soldiers. All of them were wounded but Stiefelmayer looked in a bad way.

‘Hurry, Jentz,’ shouted Basler but he knew the veteran driver was going as fast as he could. And it was probably too late anyway for his friend.

They arrived a few minutes later. Manfred stepped out of the tank to chaotic scenes around him. Explosions were splitting the air nearby. Manfred and Basler jumped onto the hull to assist Stiefelmayer, Fischer and the other tank man from the tank. Of the three, Fischer’s injuries were evidently the least serious. He had a head wound and perhaps some burns. It was hard to tell. The other tank man’s face was blackened and there was a lot of blood. But that may have come from the unconscious Stiefelmayer.

Fischer nodded to Manfred as he was helped down from the tank. Basler was shouting for stretcher bearers to come over to them. None were available. Around them, the cost of halting the assault was all too plain. Dozens of men lay dead or dying, tended by men who were in need of medical attention themselves.

Along with Fischer, Manfred and Basler carefully lifted the captain down and carried him over to the nearest doctor they could find.

‘Doctor,’ shouted Basler, ’Over here. Captain Stiefelmayer is hurt.’

A young doctor spun around. He was in the midst of half a dozen badly injured men. He glared at Basler in a manner of someone who wondered exactly what he was meant to do about that. Manfred had more than a little sympathy for him. He was faced with impossible choices to add to the intolerable situation he faced. The doctor glanced down and recognised the captain. He started towards them.

Stiefelmayer was unconscious but Manfred could see an ugly wound and some signs of burns to his face and hands. The doctor quickly but with great care examined him.

‘Bring him over there,’ said the doctor pointing to a group of men lying down on a flat piece of ground.

‘I don’t see any medics over there,’ pointed out Basler, irritably.

The doctor glared at