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

Korps was the strengthening of their aerial threat. The Luftwaffe were once more able to reach the Allied lines. After the inspection he spoke to them in a voice that he hoped seemed stronger than he felt.

‘Along the Rusweisat Ridge, our Commonwealth Allies, the New Zealanders and the South Africans are going toe to toe with the enemy. Every inch of territory is being fought over. And, yes, many are dying. They need our support and that is why we’re back in the ‘blue’. If the enemy breaks through the ridge they’ll have a clear run to Alamein. At that point we may as well roll out a red carpet and direct them on to Cairo. I don’t particularly want to do that. Do you?’

‘No, sir,’ chorused the ranks of men before him.

Roberts smiled and turned to Joly. Speaking just loud enough for the men to hear him but giving the impression that he was only speaking to Joly, he said, ‘There Cyril, I told you they were ready.’

Joly smiled and replied, ‘I never doubted, sir.’

Most of the men on the front rank smiled dutifully. Danny was standing back in the last rank. He couldn’t smile. He was neither tired, angry nor interested. What lay ahead he knew all about. Day after day of attrition. The Allies had finally begun to work out how to stop the German advance. A combination of digging in behind minefields, an artillery screen with big anti-tank twenty-five-pound guns and regular aerial bombardment. All together this had succeeded in halting the Germans in their tracks. They would now proceed to wrestle over every rock, ridge and desert rat.

The agonised eyes of his father as he’d set off to the war swam into his mind. He’d known what would happen. The clash of two mighty armies, no matter how well led or, for that matter, how badly, would always end up in a quagmire. A stalemate. One thing remained constant. Men would die trying to fulfil the ambitions of others.

He was no longer angry at Bob, his friend who’d tried to desert and then damn near killed himself to avoid the war. He was probably in a prison somewhere or what was left of him, after the incident on a train. But he was alive. Beth and the family had moved from the village, unable to look at the other villagers in the eye. Bob would come out of prison eventually. Probably he’d change his name. The world would forget long before it even thought to forgive.

His reverie was broken by the sound of aeroplanes overhead. His heart stopped for a moment until his ears attuned themselves to the sound. Then he relaxed. They were British. He saw half a dozen Hurricanes flying through the white puffs of cloud. They looked as if they were on their way to meet the enemy. Good luck, thought Danny, then he followed the rest of the crew back to the tank

-

Dick Manning plunged through the cloud on the last sortie of the day and saw the German minefield with two lines of tape marking the route through. The German tanks were under fire from anti-tank guns although they seemed remarkably untroubled. Then he saw one erupt into flames. Seconds later men came rolling out of the tank. Manning flew through the black smoke belching up from the turret. He ignored the soldiers escaping and pressed ahead towards their target, a supply echelon that had been spotted in an earlier sortie. The tanks below were too widely spread for the bombs of the Hurricane Fighter bomber to do any damage.

‘Red leader, any sign of bogies?’

‘No,’ replied Manning. ‘No sign of the supply train either.’

‘Keep an eye out for any Messerschmitts. I’m not really in the mood to face them today.’

Nor me, thought Manning. He disliked the Hurricane fighter-bomber. It did neither job particularly well. Two five hundred pound bombs was a payload that made the value of the sortie somewhat limited in Manning’s eyes. The sooner he was back in his Spitfire the better.

They pressed on. Each mile brought them closer to confrontation with the increased Luftwaffe presence. And perhaps Marseille. In the months he’d been here, the name of the Luftwaffe pilot cropped up time and again. Such was his reputation, that every pilot he’d met since his arrival had professed a desire to take him on, one on one, and show him what for. Manning assumed they were lying. They all did to an extent. They claimed kills that were probably shared, they exaggerated the manoeuvres they’d employed to evade or destroy the enemy. Harmless fun.

Not much had been heard of Marseille in a while. Manning wondered if he’d been killed. But surely they would have heard. He edged his plane downwards. The desert was empty below him. He kept descending until he was barely a few hundred feet off the ground. The plane began to rock.

‘Bit windy now,’ said Manning.

‘Club selection will be important. Hit the ball low,’ came the reply which made Manning smile. He glanced down and saw sand swirling below. Not quite a sandstorm but enough to make things a bit unpleasant for the folk on the ground. It was difficult to tell friend from foe.

‘Bogies sighted,’ said another voice over the radio.

Manning looked around him and could see nothing.

‘Where?’ he asked in exasperation. Then he saw them. His hands reacted faster than his heart. Which was just as well. They were outnumbered at least two to one. It had just taken a split second to see that there were at least a dozen fighters. They were only six.

‘Let’s get back over the tanks we saw. Drop our bombs and get away,’ said Manning.

There was no argument from the others.

‘Control to Red Leader, we’re sending up support.’

‘Tell them to get a move on will you. Over.’

Out of his peripheral vision, Manning saw the lines of Panzer tanks stretching over half a kilometre. There weren’t as many as he’d been expecting. They were advancing towards