El Alamein Jack Murray (booksvooks TXT) 📖

the ridge being held by the New Zealanders. He began banking towards them. It would be a miracle if he hit one, but it was worth a try. It would certainly give the Jerries something to think about. If nothing else it would lighten the aircraft by the sum total of  the two five hundred pound bombs he was carrying. In a race back to the base, this could be the difference between life and death.

He gripped the stick tightly and slowly levelled the plane with the ground. A few puffs of smoke appeared. His stomach was too knotted to dismiss their efforts entirely. He just wanted to get rid of the bombs and clear off.

He picked a row of tanks. They were around fifty metres apart. Three, two, one…

-

Captain Wolfgang Wahl was not yet thirty but already leading his own battalion. Gerhardt looked at him in a kind of awe. The captain barely blinked at the shells which were hitting the tank like a malevolent hailstorm. Unquestionably it inspired confidence. Or was it a kind of recklessness? The difference between the two was the difference between mist and fog. In Wahl’s case it was confidence. You could see when someone who was simply mad.

‘Keep pressing ahead, the sand will give us cover.

It doesn’t seem to be giving us much cover at the moment thought Gerhardt. They’d sustained over a dozen hits that day. Somehow the Mark IV’s thicker frontal armour had held up against the onslaught. He offered a brief and silent prayer to the German engineers who’d made the Mark IV the most well-protected tank in the war.

Two explosions, louder than the ones they were used to from the six pounders, went off behind them.

‘The planes,’ said Wahl. They’d seen the planes a few minutes earlier and breathed a collective sigh of relief when they’d ignored the tanks and kept moving. There was no time to feel guilty for being glad that someone else was going to be in the line of fire. They were on the receiving end of it, every day. Two more explosions rent the air nearby throwing up gouts of sand. These were closer than before. Gerhardt wiped the sweat from his eyes and tried to remember how many planes they’d seen. Certainly three. Were there more? He hadn’t seen any others but perhaps he’d missed some of them.

Gerhardt sensed it before it happened.

Something changed in the air, split seconds before the detonation. Like inhaling before you let out a sigh. He ducked. So, too, did Wahl. Two giant explosions rocked the tank.

The tank stopped moving and immediately filled with smoke. Gerhardt heard someone groan and realised, with relief, it wasn’t him. He was already moving towards the hatch. The driver kicked open the hatch and fell out of the tank. Gerhardt was about to follow him when he heard someone shouting. It was Hess.

‘Kroos, help me. The Captain’s been hit.’

Gerhardt glanced up. It was true. Blood streamed down Wahl’s face. He was unconscious. Flames were now licking dangerously close to the engine and, more importantly, the shells.

Without hesitating he moved upwards from the wireless position to the turret to help the gunner lift the stricken captain out from the cupola. The heat was burning his breath. He stopped breathing. Within seconds his lungs felt like they were going to explode.

Hess was already outside the cupola with his hands underneath the arms of Wahl. Gerhardt grabbed the captain’s legs and helped push him upwards. Slowly the captain was hoisted out of the turret. Gerhardt could hear cracking inside the tank now. The heat was burning his face and he let out a roar of pain. When the captain’s leg was through the cupola, Gerhardt gripped the cupola. His legs were in agony from the heat, his hands burned on the metal. He hoisted himself out of the tank.

Hess was dragging Wahl around the front of the tank. Scrambling down from the turret, Gerhardt joined him and grabbed the captain’s legs. They carried him away from the tank just as ammunition began to explode like a firework display.

‘Hurry,’ said Hess.

Gerhardt resisted the temptation to point out that he was perfectly aware of the need to hurry. Something exploded inside the tank. Gerhardt felt a stab of pain in his arm as a splinter of metal sliced his bicep. He collapsed to the ground. Hess continued to drag the captain away from the tank.

His arm was bloodied, his body protested at the excruciating pain. But he was alive. Gerhardt slowly raised himself to his feet and stumbled over towards Hess.

The three men were now in a natural depression. They kept their heads down while gunfire ripped the air around them. Gerhardt glanced enviously at the German tanks which were retreating. If he’d sprinted, he would have been able to catch one but that would have meant leaving Wahl and Hess. The thought was momentary then discarded.

‘If we stay here, perhaps we can make it back with the captain when it’s dark.’

This made sense. The light was poor and made poorer by the sand being lifted by the strong wind. Perhaps there was a chance they could make it after all. Gerhardt glanced down at his arm. His shirt had blood soaking through, but he could move his arm. It was painful but the wounds were not serious. His hands were burning from having gripped the metal of the tank as it brewed up. And his skin was tingling from either fear or the singeing it had undergone. It was almost funny. He was a mess.

Wahl was now conscious. His head wound was not so serious and was a result of having been knocked out rather than any shrapnel or effect of the explosion.

‘What happened?’ asked Wahl. His voice was weak.

Hess told him.

He looked at the two men who had, without doubt, saved his life. He nodded. That was it. No more needed to be said. He glanced up at the sky.

‘So we wait here.’

It wasn’t a