El Alamein by Jack Murray (most popular novels of all time txt) 📕

‘You’ve heard the news then,’ said Henry. It wasn’t a question.

‘Aye, sir. It’s bad news all right.’

Henry nodded. It was bad news. Bad for the morale of the country. And bad for the village. Poor Lottie had already lost one of her boys, Hugh Gissing. Now they faced the horrible prospect that one or even two had been killed, wounded or captured. At least they knew that Danny had made it out of ‘the Caldron’ safely. Stan looked hopefully at Henry and asked, ‘Have you heard anything, sir?’

‘No. I was on the phone just now. My friend at the War Office has no news yet. I gather the best we may hope for is that he’s been taken prisoner.

‘Aye, that’s what I was thinking.’

The two men nodded to each other. There seemed little else to say. Sarah joined her mother and embraced Kate. Henry felt oddly moved by the gesture. It was so natural and yet so strange to see. Life was moving so fast now. He felt the fear return. It tightened his chest like a tourniquet. He could barely breathe with the pride and anguish of it all.

22

Ladenburg, Germany, 21st June 1942

It was when they started to sing the Horst Wessel song that Peter Brehme returned to his office. His office? No longer. He shared it with Ernst Keller. In a moment of madness, that he regretted bitterly now, he’d given up his desk for the young Gestapo officer. Of course, he knew the real reason why he’d offered to do so.

Fear.

Despite having a son on the front line, despite decades of service to the community, these were changed times. The values that had formed him as a child had been the model for his own parenting. These had become corrupted. Perhaps, it had always been so. Perhaps the very severity of the discipline that had formed the characters of generation after generation of young men in his country was in itself, to blame for the disintegration of decency and respect. The rule of law had been usurped by criminals. Villains were running the show now. The body politic was rotting from the head down.

He looked at the desk that had once been his. A brown folder lay there. Temptation. He glanced at the door and then back to the folder. He leaned over the desk and picked it up. Inside was a thick sheaf of papers. On each was a small biography of key townsfolk. He flicked through it but could not see his own name. It wasn’t just adults either. He recognised the faces of some adolescents. Beside the names of the young adults was the phrase – ‘possible Edelweiss Pirate’. Brehme almost snorted at this.

-

Ernst Keller had his arm around young Jost Graf as they sang. Graf had just joined the police force. He disliked the boy. No, that wasn’t quite what he felt, he realised. He liked him but felt nothing but contempt for what he was. Chubby, bespectacled and balding. There was little about him that proclaimed either Aryan or superman. He was like a puppy. Eager to please, fearful and responsive to discipline as well as praise.

He was useful, though. Graf nominally reported to Brehme, but they both knew who his real boss was. Graf’s appointment a month previously had, at last, allowed Keller a chance to keep a watch on the one person he, paradoxically, knew least about. Graf had immediately understood what his role was to be and went about it with enthusiasm.

The file on Brehme had yielded nothing so far and as yet Keller had no reason to believe it would. However, the project he’d been given required absolute certainty about the uprightness and, importantly, the confidence in the zeal with which public officials represented the Party and the Government. In this regard there were question marks over the Chief of Police.

It had not gone unnoticed by Keller that Brehme had not joined in with the singing of the Horst Wessel song. It was almost as if he felt that because his son was out there, he was above them all. A wave of anger rushed through Keller. Then another thought struck him.

The file.

He’d left the file on the desk. Brehme would not have been aware of the project. If he looked at the file, he would know the true nature of his work in Ladenburg – documenting the names, activities and opinions of all its key citizens. The song finished and he flung the arm of Graf from his shoulder and rushed straight for his office. He opened the door.

Brehme was sitting at the desk to the side of the room. He was on the phone. Seeing Keller enter the office he nodded. He thanked the person at the other end of the line and put the phone down.

‘No news about Manfred,’ said Brehme.

Keller nodded and glanced towards his desk. The file was there, just where he’d left it. He walked over to the file and lifted it. There was no obvious sign that it had been read but Keller could not be sure. He looked over towards Brehme. The policeman was looking at a file which related to a recent spate of shop lifting. Keller glanced down at folder in his hands. Had Brehme had enough time to see what was in the file? Unquestionably, the answer was yes.

‘You must be very proud,’ said Keller in the soft voice that Brehme detested. He looked up from the file.

‘Naturally. But I’m proud of the whole army. They are magnificent. It’s a great victory for them. For Rommel.’

‘And for National Socialism.’

‘Of course.’

‘I’m sorry you couldn’t join our spontaneous celebration.’

Brehme felt his nerve endings tighten. The thought of singing any Nazi song sickened him. He realised with each passing day just how much he hated everything and everyone connected with this movement.

‘I wanted to hear if there was any news of my