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

to the side. Danny wasn’t quite sure what the designers were thinking. The position of the big gun was limited its ability to traverse right or left. It would require the tank to change direction in order to line up on target to the side. Mid battle, this was not ideal as it would not only give Jerry a bigger target to aim at but also one with far less protection than the front plating usually offered. Danny had immediate misgivings about what he was looking at.

He walked along the line looking at groups of men sitting huddled around small campfires. It was getting colder and night would soon draw in. He hurried his step, fearful of missing his quarry.

He heard the laugh before he saw the man. His back was to Danny, sitting with two other men drinking tea. Danny walked with a stealthy step and leaned over the man’s shoulder and stole his tea.

‘Oi, what the bloody hell,’ exclaimed the soldier.

‘Hello Arthur,’ grinned Danny before necking the rest of the tea. ‘Nice cup of tea, that.’

‘Danny,’ yelled Arthur leaping to his feet. ‘What the bloody hell are you doing here? I thought you were off swanning around the desert like Lawrence of Arabia or something.’

‘Been a right old holiday,’ laughed Danny.

The two friends sat down and Arthur introduced Danny to the other members of the tank crew. Don Mitchell was the gunner. He was not much younger than Arthur. He was also a Glaswegian. When he spoke, Arthur erupted into laughter at the look on his friend’s face.

‘Don’t worry, Danny-boy, none of us understand him.’

Jim Compton was closer to Danny in age and a Londoner.

‘No relation,’ said Compton by way of introduction.

‘Danny doesn’t know anything about cricket,’ said Arthur. ‘A complete heathen if you ask me. I don’t know why I let him hang around me.’

Another round of tea was served. It was getting dark just as the evening calm was broken by the sound of gunfire. Danny was startled but the others took no notice. Arthur smiled grimly at his friend.

‘They’re shooting the dogs,’ he explained.

‘Tomorrow’s dinner?’ asked Danny.

‘Rabies.’

12

Tmimi, 30km east of Derna, Libya: 27th February 1942

Manfred sank to the ground. His sweat stained shirt stuck to him like wet flannel and he desperately wanted to weep. It was his fault. All his fault. He knew it. Around him voices were shouting at him. Angry voices. He couldn’t blame them. One person laughed. It was Gerhardt. He waggled Manfred’s hair as he jogged past.

‘Never mind, old friend. It’s only a game.’

Only a game?

The match between the 1st and 2nd Battalions was more than that. It was the very stuff of life and death. Manfred’s mistake would not only rankle with him it would provide endless opportunity for both his friend and half the battalion to mock him over the coming weeks. Months probably. The ignominy of it all was beyond words and could only be understood through feeling. And that feeling was pain.

Manfred rose slowly to his feet. They were now three goals to one down with barely a handful of minutes left to play. The match restarted. Gerhardt jogged forward. He grinned once more at Manfred.

‘One more goal and I have a hat trick. Can you gift me another pass?’

Manfred’s reply was drowned out by the shouts of encouragement from the side lines. Or was it abuse? It was good-natured, ribald and insightful in equal measure. His team were mounting an attack but, as ever, they failed to penetrate a defence every bit as stout in football as they were inside twenty tonnes of armour.

The 2nd Battalion had the ball now and passed it around like professionals. Some of them had played semi-professionally. They knew what they were about. There was no panic. Just control mixed with awareness as they picked out passes to their team. By comparison, the 1st Battalion could offer only enthusiasm, limitless energy and, in Manfred’s case, suicidally risky play. That he had the ability to carry this off ninety-nine percent of the time was immaterial. Gerhardt had only needed Manfred to lapse once and he punished him severely.

The 2nd Battalion were on the attack. Manfred back pedalled to his position at the centre of the defence. The ball came across into his box. He didn’t make the same mistake this time. He headed it away, just managing to outjump his friend.

‘Bastard,’ exclaimed a grinning Gerhardt, frustrated at missing out on his hat trick.

The ball moved forward again but not for long. Soon Manfred was racing out to the wing to tackle the tricky winger who’d twisted the spirit of his team inside and out. Another corner to the 2nd Battalion. Manfred had a feeling he knew how the Tommies felt at Tobruk. It felt like he’d spent most of the match under siege. The ball whizzed over and was met powerfully by the head of Gerhardt. Manfred stretched a leg out and hooked it away from the line. The groan from Gerhardt offered him a degree of satisfaction.

The 1st Battalion chased the ball up the pitch as the whistle blew for first time. Cheers and boos rang out around the makeshift pitch. Gerhardt came over and shook hands with Manfred. The grin was smug and the words were cruelly designed to offer the least amount of comfort possible.

Manfred’s teammates were good sorts. To a man they came over and consoled him. First over was Lieutenant Stiefelmayer.

‘Brehme, that was unlucky. You played well.’

‘Thanks, sir,’ replied Manfred gloomily. Stiefelmayer patted him on the back and stood back as his other teammates joined him.

 In their actions was the painful acknowledgement that they had been beaten by a better side and that without Manfred the score could have been considerably worse.

Inevitably, sympathy was always going to be in short supply from his friend, and rival from yesteryear on a football pitch.

‘Hard luck. You played really well,’ said Gerhardt. The sentiment was somewhat undermined by a delighted grin that seemed to stretch all the way