Operation Afrika: A ruthless battle for victory in the desert (Destroyers WWII Thriller Series Book 1) by Charles Whiting

Author:Charles Whiting [Whiting, Charles]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sapere Books
Published: 2022-07-23T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 11

It was nearly thirty-six hours later, driving due south, that they had proof that the wounded Egyptian sergeant, sleeping with the rest in the back of the dust-covered truck, had been speaking the truth. Thaelmann, who was driving, hit the brakes hard and nearly sent a dozing Crooke flying into the butt of the twin Lewis guns.

‘What is it?’ he cried, waking immediately.

Thaelmann pointed to the desert in front of them. ‘Trucks, sir… Look over there, in that wadi!’

Crooke reacted instinctively. ‘Bail out,’ he cried.

The crew grabbed their weapons and flung themselves over the truck’s sides. Dropping into the sand they took up their defensive positions, their weapons cocked and ready for immediate action.

But nothing happened.

The little laager of trucks in the wadi lay stark and silent. No stream of tracer hissed their way. Crooke, who had flung himself under the front of the truck with Thaelmann and drawn his .38 in the same movement, let it drop. He stuffed the revolver back in its holster and took out his field glasses. He focused them and surveyed the silent vehicles carefully. Finally he lowered them and said: ‘They’re Chevvies too. Like our truck.’

He turned to Jones who was squatting next to Peters. ‘You two, fan out to left and right and give me cover.’

‘Okay, Lootenant,’ the American answered unslinging his Schmeisser.

He nudged Peters in the ribs. ‘All right Charlie, let’s move, eh.’ His voice was almost friendly, or as friendly as it could ever be. Crooke turned to Stevens. ‘You get behind the Lewis guns. If anything starts, fire over our heads.’ Then the three of them advanced towards the group of vehicles.

But Crooke’s precautions were unnecessary. The laager was empty and had been for some time, judging by the layer of sand which covered their bonnets and hoods. He turned and waved to the rest to bring up the truck.

‘What is it?’ Stevens asked.

‘A laager of one of the patrols, though I’ve never known them get this far south before.’ He pointed to the unit sign at the back of the nearest truck, to confirm his statement. ‘You see,’ he explained, ‘they place them out on their route as a reserve. Like the Arabs did in the old days. They never ventured into the desert without second camels.’

‘Like Father Xmas in the desert-middle?’ Muhammed quipped in his fractured English. He crossed to one of the trucks and undoing the flap pointed to the big container which lay there. ‘Fifty-gallon can of water, sir.’

‘Oh, boy,’ the American chortled with surprising enthusiasm, rubbing his stubbly chin, ‘with that kind of water you could get a real bath!’

Ever since they had left the Citadel, Crooke had only allowed them a pint of water a day for washing and general ablutions. For his part he had followed the old desert ritual of washing one third of his body with the water ration every day, working from the face downwards and then at the beginning of the fourth day starting from the toes upwards again.

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