Thunder of Cairo

Captain Johnathon Knopf settled onto the cushions, the smell of the hookah's and drink filled his nostrils. As a mechanized commander, he was one of the skeptics, but since he was sitting on the cushions of a hamlet cafe outside Cairo, he knew it was true.
Rommel had pushed onto the Suez Canal, poised above the rippling azure waters. There, the British took a stand, and kept the lifeline open. Johnathon could remember the freight train shells pummeling the infantry, the Italians breaking like they usually would. Then, the whirling of dust as the Panzers moved forward, and the Brit Churchills and Crusaders moved in, and the swirling dance of death. The whistling of shells, the dull metallic 'dong' of shells. As the night descended on the desert, Johnathon Knopf counted his losses. Three tanks out of five. Rommel had been stopped. The next day, swirling planes and bombers tumbled across the sky. Junkers, Me-109, 110's, the Italian planes, Heinkels, and the Brit Hurricanes, Spitfires, Blenheims.
A final push had ended in stalemate, as the British sowed the ground with mines and tank traps. Now, Rommel had come back from Germany, armed with three armored and a mechanized division. Oil from the south, rubber from Japanese lands, men from the Deutchland.


Henry Grist felt the wind swirl around his boots. As a SAS commando, he had taken the most dangerous assignments. This was important, hit the Flak 88 cannons, knock them out. Four were in his sector. The only Jerries are two tanks, two anti-aircraft, and twenty or so foot-soldiers. The four commandos would take them down. They would feel the blade before the sword.
As he wafted downward, Henry knew the plan. Strike across from Suez with the armored divisions. Two to Alexandria, three south of Cairo, another two north of Cairo. Then mechanized infantry, and foot-soldiers. The Americans would be in Morocco now, and an American division of foot soldiers were attached to the attacking fores. Green troops, they were going to be useless for anything but defense. Most troops are good for defense, but green-horns were the worst. Slowly apparating, the small hamlet of Hali-al-Barbar, with two cafes, a hotel, and a couple houses. The rest was farmland.

With a slow precision, Henry Grist landed on a house, cut his parachute, pulled out the Sten machine gun, and walked to the edge. Below, a German Panzer Mk 3 sat, covered with palm branches and camoflage. Two crew members were below. Pulling out his knife, Henry prepared himself. To kill Jerries, Nazi's, men who killed his brothers-in-arms. Leaping, he hit the first man on the shoulders and spine, breaking his neck instantly. Rolling over, he trust upward into the second man's throat. Blood spurted out his throat, and out his mouth. Also leaving his body was half-eaten biscuit and water. Crouching, Henry pulled out a mine, pulled the safety, and placed it in the tracks. Moving silently, he sheathed the knife and grabbed his Sten. Ahead, one of the Flak cannons. Two guards. Sneaking around another house, Henry felt a cool blade.
"Henry?" came the startled whisper.
"Yes, Prince, it's me Henry, now get the blade away from me."
A staccato roar sounded. Then a Jerry machine-gun.
Pulling out a grenade, Henry pulled the pin and tossed it into the flak cannon bunker.