El Alamein Jack Murray (booksvooks TXT) 📖

He looked down with disgust at the food he was eating. This didn’t help either. The lack of fresh fruit and vegetables inhibited his body’s ability to heal. He knew the sores he had now would be his companion for months if they didn’t capture the port that had eluded them for over a year.

Tobruk.

It was so close now. They’d ripped up the defensive boxes surrounding the town. Thousands of prisoners, tonnes of supplies yet it would be all for nothing if they failed, once again, to capture the fortress.

The success in driving the British away from the Gazala Line had, at least, allowed the Afrika Korps to recover stockpiles of food that had been hidden the previous year. Better still, Manfred was now outfitted in British clothes. He’d found a pair of grey corduroy trousers to go with what remained of his uniform. Last year he’d laughed at the German soldiers wearing English dress, now he was one of them. And he wasn’t alone. Basler was similarly attired and his transformation to English gent was now complete. Laughter at his new wardrobe was conspicuously contained to behind his back.

‘Get some sleep,’ ordered Basler returning to the bivouac. ‘The attack begins at 0520 tomorrow.’

Of course, even dressed like a country squire, Basler still had the capacity to jolt them from their more childish fancies.

‘The minefields?’ asked Manfred.

‘Paths are being created at the moment. There will be no artillery fire, just an aerial attack. They’ll come over from Crete.’

Brief and to the point as ever. Basler rarely wasted even a syllable.

Work on the tanks had stopped now and a strangely expectant silence descended over the leaguer. They had been here before. And failed. This time things felt different. The capitulation of the enemy had renewed belief that the fortress was within their reach. One last effort, thought Manfred, before he swiftly felt coherence ebb away to be replaced by random ideas and memories and then he was falling, falling, falling into darkness.

-

‘They’re out there,’ observed Bert Gissing, draining yet another brew.

There was going to be little argument from Tom on that. They’d talked of nothing else for a month now. The muffled sounds of the Afrika Korps, although many miles away, still carried through the night to the check post on the inner perimeter manned by the 201st Guards. Bert gazed out into the darkness. Ahead the minefields and the barbed wire were visible for about fifty yards before they dissolved into the haze of the desert. He shivered despite the slow rise in temperature.

‘How much longer?’ asked Tom for the seventh time at least.

Bert glanced at his watch. Their stint was due to finish at 0600 and then they would have a well-earned sleep.

‘Another five minutes and counting,’ replied Bert. He watched Tom fish some cigarettes from his pocket. He took the one offered and put it in his mouth. The two men looked at each other expectantly.

‘I’ve no matches left,’ said Tom.

‘Me neither,’ came the reply.

A series of oaths followed from Tom and chuckles from Bert. Tom left his friend in search of a light for his cigarette. A minute later he returned. A pale orange glow lit his face casting demonic shadows around his eyes. Tom was now profiled against the backdrop of tanks from the 4th Royal Tank Regiment. He stopped suddenly and turned to look at the tanks and then back to Bert. Then he shrugged and said, ‘The welcoming committee.’

 It was said with a grin but inside he wasn’t so sure. For the last few weeks, they’d listened with increasing dismay and no little concern about how the renewed push from the enemy had seemed to sweep aside the defensive boxes around the Gazala Line. One after one they’d fallen like a row of dominoes: Bir Hacheim, the 150th Brigade Box, Knightsbridge.

He walked up to Bert and lit his cigarette. There was a distinct rumble in the air now. Tom thought about Danny. He felt his stomach knot at the thought of his brother and what he’d had to face over the last few weeks. He was afraid. There was no use in denying it.

The rumble in the distance was more distinct now. It was getting closer. Bert and Tom exchanged looks. Bert frowned. From somewhere else there was a hum. Tom spun around to face the town and the dark silhouette of the escarpment to the east. He gazed skywards.

Men were emerging now from behind the tanks. Some were running, others staggering, half asleep. The hum was louder, deeper and more malevolent. Tom and Bert ran to retrieve their helmets.

‘Not much warning, was there?’ said Bert.

The low hum was transforming into a higher pitch. Tom and Bert stood transfixed as the ack, ack began exploding uselessly in the sky. Now the noise of the planes was changing again into something far more terrifying. The Stukas began to scream as they descended sharply towards the harbour. They began bombing and strafing defensive positions a few miles away on the escarpment.

‘Just planes?’ asked Bert in a hushed tone.

His question was answered immediately as the first shells began to rain down near them. The accuracy, given the distance, was frightening.

‘What was that you said about them being out there?’ asked Tom sprinting towards a trench.

-

For once Manfred was glad that visibility was so poor. Orange smoke obscured his view. It was necessary though to stop the Stukas, the Messerschmitt’s and the HE-111 bombers blowing up the very attack they were supposed to be supporting. The scream of shells and Stukas vibrated through Manfred’s body like a terrified shiver.

Somewhere up ahead, inevitably, was Captain Kummel. He was the first through the ditch and into the alleys carved out in the early hours of the morning through the minefields. The Panzers poured forward before fanning out to avoid the artillery and anti-tank fire emerging from Tobruk and the escarpment.

The air was hot with more than just shell and shot. By mid-morning