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

on the tracks until Kiel called that their coffee was ready. They joined the others. Manfred looked around at the dull eyes of his comrades. There was little sense of heroic ambition there. Nor was there obvious fear or, indeed, the indifference that assails you when you realise there really is no hope. In its place the training and experience of countless encounters was beginning to prevail. The noises around them were not just the sounds of battle but the shouts of soldiers preparing for what lay ahead. They did this by checking machinery, testing weapons, challenging one another to their jobs. It worked in a strange way. Your thoughts turned outward from the terror you were feeling and towards what you were there to do.

-

‘What’s that?’ asked Jentz, three hours later, soon after they had set off again. Visibility had begun to deteriorate and, for once, it was nothing to do with the midday heat haze which turned the horizon into a glinting blur. Manfred joined Basler outside the turret.

‘Sandstorm,’ said Manfred simply.

‘At least it will blow into the faces of Tommy,’ added Basler with a hint of a smile. The two men dived back into the hot, stinking safety of the interior. The thought of what the sand would do to the enemy gave both Manfred and Basler a lift. Then Kummel’s voice came loud and clear on the radio.

‘We are to push to the western side of the Alam el Halfa ridge. Trieste and Ariete are caught up in the minefields.’

‘Of course they’re caught up in them. They weren’t told about them in the first place,’ snapped Basler angrily.

They trundled forward behind a dozen other Mark III’s. As they were in No Man’s Land, the regiment was ordered to fan out to present a wider target for the inevitable bombardment they would face.

The combination of coffee and the likely discomfort of the enemy had energised Manfred. The sandstorm was better than a smokescreen for the attack. It would prevent aerial reconnaissance and bombing. It would delay the moment when they began to face the long-range shelling from the enemy twenty-five pounders. Perhaps things might just go their way.

-

A couple of miles further ahead, directly in their path was the Alam el Halfa ridge. This was the southern underbelly to the Allied stronghold at El Alamein. The rocky ridge was an undulating series of very highly defensible positions that had been created by the Allies.

Standing at the top of the ridge was one Lieutenant James Carruthers. He held his binoculars to his eyes and surveyed the Deir el Agram depression, or at least what he could see of it. This wasn’t much. They would have to come this way, he thought. Pity he couldn’t see anything. He cast aside his binoculars. There was little point in looking while the sand was blowing with such anger. He looked around him. There were six-pounder guns lined up waiting to give Jerry the welcome he most assuredly deserved. A young man, a sergeant, came over to him.

‘Tea, sir?’

Carruthers glanced at the young man and smiled, ‘Yes, thank you, McMillan. That would be very nice.’

How surreal, thought, Carruthers. Two years ago, he’d been a manager of a shoe factory. Now he was virtually running a battalion of gunners. Class always tells, he reflected. They could see he was officer material from the off. He surveyed the faces of his men. Most were sitting smoking cigarettes. Their battle would start soon. Carruthers was happy for them to grab a few minutes of peace. The big guns were firing from a position further back. The noise was more sporadic since the sandstorm had started to blow in their faces. Carruthers crouched down to avoid the full intensity of its blast.

McMillan arrived a few minutes later with a mug of tea. He’d covered the top with a card. After eighteen months in this god-forsaken land he’d grown used to sand in his tea. It usually sank to the bottom. With his back to the sand, Carruthers positioned the card at the top in such a way as to allow him to drink. He took his first sip when he heard the shout from one of his men.

‘Tanks, sir. A bugger load of them.’

Carruthers remained seated and sipped his tea.

‘How many is that exactly, Finch? And how far?’

A few moments passed.

‘At least eighty, sir. Must be two thousand yards.’

‘Very well,’ replied Carruthers. He rose to his feet and drank another large mouthful. The remainder of the mug was emptied. A ghastly mixture of tea and sand fell like treacle to the rocky ground. Carruthers glanced down at it distastefully. ‘McMillan, where are you? Can you take this?’

The young gunner appeared and took the lieutenant’s cup. Carruthers returned his attention to the dark shapes appearing through the blowing sand.

‘How far are they now?’ He could have been asking someone’s opinion on the weather.

‘Fifteen hundred yards, sir,’ replied a sergeant. Half a minute later, he added, ‘A thousand yards.’

Carruthers picked up his binoculars to see for himself and said calmly.

‘Perhaps we should start shooting.’

-

Manfred’s first view of the Alam el Halfa ridge was when he saw the puffs of white smoke. Moments later the air was split apart by the sound of explosions. It was too far away to return fire. They had to keep going in the face of this almighty barrage. But not every tank was so limited. The new Mark IV’s had a seventy-five-millimetre gun. This was going to be a nasty surprise for the British.

‘Enemy tanks one thousand metres,’ reported Kummel over the radio. ‘Mark IV’s commence firing. The rest of you wait until we’re within range.’

In a moment of jubilation, he saw clouds of smoke being thrown skyward along the ridge as the new Mark IV’s began to exact a toll. British tanks were in flames, too. Manfred motioned to Kleff to make ready.

‘HE shells.’

Basler looked at Manfred and nodded, ‘Aim for the artillery on the ridge. We’ll let the Mark IV’s deal