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

to the forge. Get a move on. Bit by bit the echelon moved past them. It was a few hundred yards long. The lead elements were past when Arnott’s arm descended like a guillotine.

‘Fire!’ shouted Blair.

Guns chattered and explosions detonated nearby. But Danny was no longer listening or indeed thinking. He was loading the next cartridge into the breech.

-

‘Get a move on,’ said Tom Shaw. He was staring down at the can of water. It was sitting on top of another can filled with sand and oil which had been lit. Urging it to boil with various expressions of profanity did not seem to speed matters up unfortunately. He was dying for a brew. By the looks of the men around him, so were they.

‘I can’t make it boil any faster,’ moaned Morris, the young man tasked with making the tea. He held his arms out in supplication. This was met by an all too predictable volley of abuse from the three men sitting around the fire.

A few minutes later Tom stood up and walked over towards a man standing piquet. Without saying anything, Tom tapped him on the shoulder. The man nodded and went over to the campfire to get his brew. A minute later he was back. They stood together and looked out at the flat, barren landscape, empty save for the barbed wire. For hundreds of yards directly in front of them were mines laying waiting for the return of the Afrika Korps. Neither man doubted they would be back.

A companionable silence followed. The two men warmed their hands on their cups. It was mid-morning and a hint of rain lay in the air.

‘How long do you think it will be, Bert?’

Bert Gissing didn’t have to have the question explained. It was the thought uppermost on all their minds. The Germans had been pushed back to the west of the country, but they hadn’t been defeated. Nor could they be. The Allies had simply stretched themselves too far to inflict any real damage now. If anything, the greatest risk lay in the possibility of a counterattack.

‘Not long,’ concluded Bert. He was as tall as Tom but much broader despite the rather limited diet forced on them. They’d grown up together, gone to school together, fought against each other and then fought together against the Axis.

Neither said anything for a minute as they watched a plane overhead. Each man tensed. The plane was not yet visible. When you cannot see, you hear. Their ears blocked out all sound except that of the brittle clatter of the engine. One of ours.

‘Wouldn’t catch me up in one of them things,’ said Bert before laughing at the ridiculousness of the statement. As if the danger in the air could anyway be less than what he’d faced over the previous eight months. Tom wasn’t going to let him get away with this.

‘Aye your right there Bert. Much better facing Jerry here at the seaside.’

In fact, they were a little too far inland to see the coast now. Tobruk was a few miles away. They were at the inner perimeter. Then the mines. Then Jerry. The thought of this made Tom glance towards the jeep nearby.

‘Even Jerry has to celebrate new year, right?’ offered Tom, hopefully.

‘What’s to celebrate?’ replied Bert. He could feel his eyes sting as he said this. Tom glanced at him. An apology was in his eyes. Bert shook his head.

‘Sorry, mate. Here’s to Hugh,’ said Tom and held his cup up.

Bert nodded and they clinked cups.

‘To Hugh. Happy new year up there,’ said the two men in unison. A eulogy for a fallen comrade, a friend, a brother.

They were silent once more and remained so for some minutes lost in thoughts that were not of the present but of green countryside, of stolen apples and of wrestling matches by secluded, shady brooks.

Their reverie was broken by the sound of a car arriving. A corporal hopped out of the car clutching mail. Tom and Bert went towards him.

‘One for you, Bert and a couple for you, Tom,’ said the corporal.

Tom glanced at the first letter and recognised the elegant handwriting of his mother.

-

Kate Shaw felt satisfied that the rain had stopped. The sky seemed liquid, however. The grey cloud moved like treacle. She would risk it. Throwing a coat on she stepped over a puddle at the front door and wondered why she’d bothered. She was wearing wellington boots after all.

The garden gate led directly onto the high street. Behind her she could hear Stan beating the hell out of some metal. She glanced back at him, but his attention was focused solely on the job. He was bathed in the orange glow of the forge.

She walked along the street in the direction of “Nettlestone’s Village Store (est. 1702)”. Lottie Gissing was on the other side of the street. Lottie waved to her and smiled. Kate was on the point of wishing her a happy new year when she remembered and stopped herself. Poor Hugh. She felt her stomach tighten.

Just behind came the sound of horses’ hooves clopping on the cobble stones. She turned around. A young woman hop down gracefully from a beautiful chestnut horse. The young woman saw Kate and smiled. Kate stopped as it was clear the young woman wanted to speak with her.

‘Good afternoon, Mrs Shaw,’ said Sarah Cavendish.

‘Hello, Lady Sarah,’ said Kate.

‘I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to chat on Christmas Eve,’ said Sarah. ‘I wanted to ask you about Tom and,’ she paused for a moment. A hint of red blushing her skin. ‘And Danny.’

Kate needed no invitation to talk about her sons. Alas what was there to say? Letters from them were infrequent.

‘I had a letter from them both around the middle of November. It was just before the last push. They were both well. Tom is still in Tobruk as far as I know and…’

Kate caught her breath. Sarah instinctively grasped her arm and Kate could see there were tears in