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

He was bewildered by the obedience with which the Afrika Korps followed a madman such as Rommel. He never stopped. Not for a minute. It was never enough for a such a man. Tobruk? Manfred had already forgotten about it. His hopes that they would stop for a while were soon shattered. There was only a brief pause to re-equip, refuel and reinforce. No rest, though. Not even a chance to swim or drink beer with his friends or regain some semblance of strength. That hope was gone. It was simply never going to stop. Rommel would keep pushing on until there were literally no tanks left.

And there weren’t many left now. Six working Panzers in the 1st Battalion.

If the Allies had had any idea how screwed they were at that moment, they wouldn’t be running away. But that had stopped now, hadn’t it? They weren’t running anymore. Manfred sensed they’d gone back as far as they were prepared to go. The advantage was, once more, swinging back to the enemy: the Allied supply lines were short and the RAF owned the skies. The Afrika Korps was a long way from home, whichever way you looked at it. Ladenburg. Tripoli. Bloody hell, even Tobruk.

Manfred glanced over at Basler. He was sleeping. This was not unusual now. Work on the tank often carried on late into the night. Then there were the night bombing raids by the RAF which disrupted sleep. By the time they rose early the next morning, sleep deprivation was acute. Opportunities to nap on marches were grabbed where possible. Poor Jentz. He had to stay awake, though.

‘Enemy tanks,’ said Jentz.

Well, if anything was going to wake the lieutenant from a deep sleep it was those two words. His eyes sprang open.

‘Where?’

Manfred, Basler and Kleff all had their eyes fixed through their viewers searching through the dust and sand for a sign of what Jentz had seen. The shelling started before they could fix on anything with certainty.

‘Where are the damn tanks?’ said Basler in frustration.

Through the dust and the smoke they could all see a ridge further ahead. Dark shapes suggested there were tanks, hull-down, dug in. Basler didn’t have to give any orders. Manfred had already pointed to the HE shells. Kleff reacted immediately. A shell was in the breech before Basler ordered them to fire. Manfred pressed the firing button and felt a stab of pain in his thumb. The sore had not healed and nor would it until he had a break from the blasted war.

‘Do you want me to slow down, sir?’ asked Jentz.

‘No, keep going,’ ordered Basler. ‘They look like Mathilda tanks. They can’t hurt us from there. I’m surprised they still have any of those left. The British probably gave them to the Indians.’

In fact, it was a New Zealand brigade who were holding the ridge and, by the sounds of the radio traffic, were giving the Italian Ariete Division hell.

 Forty metres in front, Kummel was leading the charge towards the New Zealanders. The eighty-eights were finding their mark. Basler fixed his eyes on the ridge and said, ‘Rusweisat Ridge up ahead.’

The artillery fire from the panzer was sporadic causing Basler to swear openly. This was a rare occurrence and Manfred glanced at the lieutenant in surprise. Meanwhile, Kummel’s voice was on the radio barking orders. He seemed to be demanding that the intensity of the artillery screen increase.

‘We’re nearly out of ammo,’ came the reply. This was incredible. An officer from the artillery telling them they could not continue shelling.

‘Sorry can you repeat that?’ This was Stiefelmayer. It was as if he wanted the artillery man to understand, as publicly as possible, just how ludicrous the statement was.

Basler stared at the radio dumbfounded and yet not surprised. They were making an attack against a well-guarded position and a key group within the division were without ammunition. He shook his head and could imagine Teege, Kummel and Stiefelmayer doing likewise. Their mission was now bordering on suicidal. News came through that the rear areas were under attack from the RAF. Multiple waves of fighters and bombers were holding up the advance of the supply train

‘Break off the attack,’ snarled Kummel angrily. Whatever the truth about the attack on the supply echelon, this was an ongoing open wound that was inhibiting the greatest army on the planet from performing its task. The blame for the lack of ammunition, of fuel, of food, of men and materiel lay further afield from North Africa.

-

That evening back at the leaguer, as tired as he felt, Manfred sensed his spirits lifting. The flyer, Marseille, had brought with him mail and the usual collection of newspapers and magazines from his recent trip back to Germany. It was good to read letters from his father. Manfred felt that he understood him better. He sensed a change in him, too. The letters were tinged with regret for things never said. He seemed more communicative, more open in writing than when face to face.

As much of a lift as the mail gave to everyone there was also a sense of relief. An acknowledgement a disaster had been averted that day. They’d only lost two tanks. This was a miracle of sorts. It was clear to him and surely to Rommel, that they were, once again, stretched too thinly with too few working tanks to mount a serious attack against the Allied positions. As if to confirm this, they heard the drone of RAF planes overhead. Would they ever stop?

Rommel’s calculation was theoretically correct. The Allies would only stop when they’d been overrun. The reality of Afrika Korps’ position was much more precarious. A serious attack from the Allies could very well wipe them out. They had a handful of tanks, held together by glue and an army that was exhausted.

There were no lights in the camp. All was dark. No one could smoke. The ground seemed to throb at the proximity of the enemy bombers. Manfred felt a