El Alamein, Jack Murray [best autobiographies to read .txt] 📗

yards, nothing would survive. Shouts of exultation from above. Benson was delighted. He was laughing but there was a hysterical edge to his joy.

‘You did it, Archie.’

McLeish reached up and shook Andrews’ hand. The fear and the nausea and the grief for the deaths of PG and Gregson were forgotten in the instant when they realised they’d won the duel. Danny stared at the enemy tank and wondered if he should move. He started to roll forward.

‘Halt,’ shouted Benson.

Danny put his foot on the brake immediately and looked up. He was confused. Why were they stopping?

‘Sir, we should move,’ said Danny. His foot slipped onto the accelerator in readiness.

‘Nonsense, Shaw,’ said Benson. A moment later the words died on his lips as they all heard the crump of a gun. Danny automatically ducked down and made himself small. The tank was hit by the shell at the point where the turret meets the hull. At such close range, the projectile passed through the fifty-one millimetres of armour, through the tank engine, shattering everything in its wake: man, metal and shell. Hot splinters burst into flame in the remains of the fuel.

The noise of tearing metal and screams were deafening. And Danny heard them all. He could hear them as they died. Then he heard something else.

The first crackle of flames.

48

Manfred slumped against the wall of the tank. It was wet. He felt as if he would black out. He couldn’t. There was every chance the tank could be shot at again. Then he heard an almighty crash. He’d hit the other tank. He gave a silent thanks to Kleff who’d obviously been on the point of firing. The thought of Kleff, then the others, stabbed Manfred’s heart. There was no other noise in the tank apart from a fizzing. They were all dead.

He steeled himself to look around. No one, nothing was recognisable anymore. The shower of shrapnel and splinters had made an horrific mess of flesh and bone and organs. Manfred began to retch. He was on all fours now. Adrenaline coursed through his body. It numbed the stinging sore pain in his legs.

He had to move.

He drew himself up and tried to stand. It hurt but he could put his weight on each foot. The fizzing was growing louder. There was smoke. His eyes were watering from more than just sadness. The smell of burnt flesh was overpowering his senses and making him weak.

He gripped the edge of the cupola and hauled himself up. The tank began to pop. The flames were reaching the ammunition. Soon the popping would become small explosions. More ammunition would start to heat up, then explode, further extenerating the lumps of human flesh that were the sole remaining evidence that humans had been inside the tank.

It took an enormous effort of will, but Manfred managed to push his body through the hatch of the cupola. He fell onto the front of the tank and rolled off onto the hard rocky desert with a thump that knocked the air from him.

Screams ripped through the air.

They weren’t his.

-

God it was hot.

Rivers of sweat flowed from his forehead, or was it blood? He couldn’t see. All around him was a blur. The smoke, the sweat, the watery images caused by the heat stopped his eyes from focusing. His arm seemed to be stuck. He wanted to wipe his eyes. He tried to free his hand. No joy. The air seemed to be draining from the cabin. Each breath he took fried his lungs. His legs also seemed to be locked into a position. Something was holding them down. He needed to wipe his eyes.

The coughing started. Breathe, cough, breathe again. The pain seared his throat like acid. The heat was no longer murmuring now; it was crackling. All around him the metal of the cabin seemed to be melting. The sound of the fire was intoxicating, like immersive percussion. He was drowning in its indiscriminate beat. His eyes closed. The temperature was overwhelming him now.

He heard music. His father floated into view and then he saw her. He looked into her green eyes. They smiled invitingly. So much he wanted to say but, how could he? And then they disappeared from view. He tried to reach out to her. There was a loud rumbling. Like thunder in the distance.

Danny eyes opened again. The sound of crackling was louder. Getting nearer. Still, he felt weighed down. With a struggle he freed one arm and wiped his eyes. He wished he hadn’t. A body was lying over him. It was PG or what remained of his crew mate. He levered him away, freeing up his other arm. The skin on his hand was burning.

Lifeless eyes nearby gazed him mockingly at him. It would be his turn next. Death was all around him. It would soon slowly enfold him in its arms and caress him away from the pain, the heat and the hate. He closed his eyes.

A series of explosions outside. He woke with a start. Another explosion, more distant. He roused himself once more. Every breath was a struggle now.

Another body lay over his feet. He tried to kick free. Pain knifed his chest as he tried to rise, he flopped back. It was useless. And the crackling fire grew louder and edged closer. He felt like crying. This is how it would be then. The immensity of the moment was too much. The indignity of it. Absurd almost. He was in despair. Panic rose in him, drowning his spirit, his will to live. The cabin seemed airless now. He cried out a name. Her name.

The shapes in the cabin grew indistinct again and the crackling grew dimmer, like a murmur. And then he woke again. And he began to scream over and over again. Not like this. It couldn’t be like this. He screamed again. He screamed until the pain in his throat threatened to overcome him and then he kept screaming.

The animal screams gave