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

suggestion. His mind was recovering quickly now. Through the flurries of sand, they could see a dozen or so Panzers receding into the distance. The firing was no longer concentrated around them and, instead, was focused on the retreating tanks.

Gerhardt’s breath was coming in shallow bursts. It hurt when he inhaled too deeply. He lowered his head to avoid the sand blowing into his eyes. He tried to think of a time when he’d felt in more pain or discomfort. The evening spent running around the parade ground sprang to mind. Yet even that was no comparison to how he felt now. He grimaced in agony.

‘Good work, Kroos,’ said Hess, looking at Gerhardt. ‘I couldn’t have done that without you.’

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Wahl looking at him. Hess was speaking in a low voice into the captain’s ear. A moment later Wahl looked at him. There was something in his eyes that he hadn’t seen before. It went beyond gratitude, respect even. It was a love that only men who have faced death and worked together to conquer it can feel.

The gunfire was ebbing away with the light. But a new sound was growing louder. The sound of men, on foot, talking to one another. Their voices were not German. The three men in the shallow looked at one another. It was a slim hope that they could stay unobserved. Each passing minute saw the light grow dimmer. However, the wind was dying and there was less sand being picked up and thrown through the air.

The voices grew louder.

It was difficult to understand them at first. It was English but the accent was too strong to understand. They heard the crack of rifles being fired.

‘Idiots,’ hissed Wahl. Gerhardt wasn’t sure if he was referring to the Allied infantry or any German tank men who had decided to fight. The sound of shouts grew louder. The crack of guns grew more insistent.

Gerhardt ducked down further. His heart was racing now, and the back of his throat was a torment. The adrenalin that had surged through his body following their escape was wearing off and his body suffering. There was a further crash of gunfire but Gerhardt could not bring himself to look up and see who was firing or where it was happening.

The acrid smell of burning now filled his nostrils. The wind had lightened but it had also shifted. Black smoke from their tanks was drifting lazily over them.

‘Can you see them?’ whispered Wahl.

Hess shook his head. The gunfire had stopped for a moment along with the shouts. Gerhardt’s hopes began to flicker more strongly.

If not dark, then it was certainly going to be night within the next fifteen minutes. Each passing second seemed to stretch endlessly like the sermon of his old pastor. Just ten minutes or more. The Allies would not want to be out in the dark any more than they would.

More gunfire.

It seemed to come from somewhere behind the destroyed tank.

‘Bastards better not be killing our men,’ said Wahl in a low growl. Despite his youth, he was of the old school. You did not kill men who had escaped from burning tanks.

The shouts had returned. They couldn’t see where they were coming from. The shouts grew louder. Another gunshot. This was very close. You could hear the bolt action on the Lee Enfield.

Gerhardt’s chest tightened and he stopped breathing for a moment. He looked up but could see nothing now. The night was filled with disembodied voices shouting. Fear gripped him but he forced himself to look up. He didn’t want to be shot, cowering face down.

‘Over here,’ an English voice shouted. It came from behind them.

A gunshot.

Gerhardt flinched. In fact, the three men flinched at the same moment. They turned around.

Two Allied soldiers were standing near them. They were young. Scared. And pointing rifles right at them. This was a combination that did not bode well.

‘Do not shoot,’ said Hess slowly. He began to raise his hands. Gerhardt and Wahl did likewise. A couple of other Allied soldiers ran over. They were all pointing their Lee Enfields at Gerhardt and the others. There was silence for a moment. One of the soldiers motioned with his gun for them to rise.

More soldiers arrived.

First Hess and then Wahl rose. They helped Gerhardt up as it was now plain that he was the more badly injured. All had their hands up now. Gerhardt looked at the young men before him. They were all of a similar age to him. New Zealanders. He looked into the eyes of the sergeant who’d just arrived.

‘Do any of you speak English?’

All three answered ‘yes’ simultaneously. It would have been funny had it not been so frightening.

‘Come with us,’ ordered the sergeant.

Gerhardt, Wahl and Hess exchanged brief looks and then, nodded.

‘Yes, sergeant,’ said Wahl.

It was night. The firing had stopped, and other soldiers had arrived. Gerhardt could see there were few other prisoners. And then he realised in shock that’s that what he was now.

A prisoner of war.

27

El Tahag Mobilisation Camp, 40 miles northeast of Cairo, Egypt: 13th August 1942

‘Who is this Pyman anyway?’ asked Danny, looking at Benson. He was referring to the new Lieutenant-Colonel who was to replace Pip Roberts.

Benson smiled and replied. ‘Ever seen any paintings of Napoleon?’

Danny smiled and nodded.

‘Well, imagine someone like that with similar ambition and energy; then I think you’ll have an idea of what the new C.O. is like.’

‘Have you met him?’

‘Only briefly,’ replied Benson. He tapped his pipe on a rock and then put it back in his mouth. ‘I think he’ll be good. He said to all of us that there are three things he would not tolerate: drunkenness, idleness and stupidity.’

Danny turned away and gazed out at the endless sea of tents at the camp. They would be on the march again soon. Back out into the blue. They’d had a longer break from the fighting and Danny felt something of his old self returning.