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

and the shelling at night developed its own shocking routine.

 Three nights later, Manfred stood with Fischer and gazed at the horizon.

‘They should start anytime…’

The first crumps confirmed Fischer’s view and the whole of the horizon was lit up by the thousand guns they were facing.

‘…soon,’ completed Fischer. ‘Persistent, aren’t they. I’ll give them that.’

The two young men glanced at one another and a sense of unease descended on them. Even Fischer’s normal certainty appeared to be eroding in the face of the overwhelming opposition they were facing. The previous evening he’d admitted his doubts more or less. Now he repeated the same phrase again.

‘They just keep coming. Whatever we throw at them, more come. It’s like they want us to use up all of our ammo, fuel, men.’

‘You heard about the convoy from Sicily?’

‘Yes, it was sunk yesterday. We needed those supplies.’

‘We’re low on our HE shells now. I don’t know what they expect us to fight with. Those new tanks of theirs, too. It feels like we’re hitting them with tennis balls,’ said Fischer ruefully.

Manfred grinned at this and it widened when he saw Fischer’s frown deepen.

‘I just knew you played tennis. Dancing around the court in your whites.’

Manfred then began to mimic a ballet dancer playing tennis which was so ridiculous even Fischer had to laugh.

‘I don’t know what’s so wrong about tennis.’

‘I’m building a picture of your privileged life.’

The smile faded a little and Fischer stretched his arms out, ‘Not so privileged now.’ Then he made a show of patting away the layer of dust that caked his uniform. ‘My family were friends with Gottfried von Cramm. Well, up until he was arrested. After that it was difficult, although my father probably stayed in contact. We were at Wimbledon with him when he lost to Perry.’

‘He lost every time,’ said Manfred. ‘I listened to the last one on the radio with my father.’

‘He won in Paris,’ pointed out Fischer, a little defensively.

Manfred made a face to suggest that Paris didn’t count much. Then a thought struck him.

‘I wonder where he is now.’

‘They sent him to Russia, I heard.’

‘What about Schmeling? Did you know him, too?’

Fischer grinned at the hint of sarcasm in Manfred’s voice.

‘I met him. Twice, actually. I liked him. Wasn’t he wounded in Crete?’

‘Yes,’ exclaimed Manfred, clapping his hands. ‘You’re right. I heard that, too.’

They were silent for a few moments and listened to the barrage. The shells seemed to be falling elsewhere but the call would come for them to return to the tanks. They’d tried to grab some sleep in their tanks for the previous three nights. Despite the bombardment, an hour or two had been managed. One shell landed a lot closer to the tank leaguer. They looked at one another and with a nod, parted.

Manfred trotted back towards his tank. All around him the crews were quickly clearing up and leaping into the tanks for protection from the fire. Although sporadic, no one wanted to risk being hit by shrapnel or being obliterated by a chance shell landing nearby. He saw Basler glaring at him in the turret of the tank. He could be like a mother hen sometimes yet, in an odd way, Manfred cared about him. Sometimes the chinks would appear in the walls he’d built around himself. Everyone did this, of course. They dressed their fears in bravado, their insecurity in composure, their lack of knowledge in knowing silence. Basler was unusual insofar as his demeanour was one of permanent irritation. Even when he was pleased with how the crew had acted, it was expressed through dissatisfaction. It took a moment before Manfred realised this could have been his father.

‘Where have you been? The warning came minutes ago,’ snarled Basler as Manfred entered the tank.

Manfred contented himself with an apology as both knew Basler was not interested in the answer to the question.

Basler looked at Jentz. He asked, ‘All checks have been made?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘The steering linkage? You said it was rattling.’

Jentz nodded wearily. He’d spent the afternoon fixing it. He flinched as an explosion rocked the tanks. Most of the tanks were falling apart. The operational strength was gradually being whittled away.

Somewhere in the night a machine gun was firing. The only damage it was likely to inflict on the tank leaguer was to deprive the crews of sleep. But even then, it was doomed to failure. Everyone was exhausted. Sleep was no longer an issue. They sat silently in the tank listening to the sound of the gunfire.

‘Do they take turns?’ asked Kiel.

Basler smiled mirthlessly.

‘That’s the strategy. The Allies are taking it in turns to push forward at us. Then they retire and someone new comes along. They’re still fighting the Great War again only this time there’s no one new going to come and replace us. They’ll keep chipping away until we either fall back or there’s nothing left to hit.’

‘Will Rommel withdraw?’ asked Manfred. Saying ‘retreat’ was verboten.

Basler studied Manfred for a moment. Perhaps he’d said too much. His face betrayed little anxiety. Then he frowned and replied, ‘We nearly had them a day or two ago. The Field Marshall is a gambler. He’ll roll the dice one more time. Back them up against our minefield and blast them into the next world.’

42

El Alamein, Egypt: 1st November 1942

Evening brought its usual bite in the air. Danny wrapped his coat more tightly around him not that it made much use. The cold air could creep through the layers with ease. He felt for the poor infantry buggers at the front who did not have the luxury of a campfire or overcoats.

‘How long has Benson been away?’ asked PG returning with his spade from a walk in the night.

‘Not long. He thinks we’ll be moving back up to the front tomorrow,’ replied Danny, not looking up from his tea. He missed PG rolling his eyes.

‘Can’t wait,’ said the Yorkshireman collapsing to the ground.

Danny finally turned to him.

‘Have you sorted out the engine?’

PG nodded and said, ‘Yes,