her head stopped spinning. She saw Vandarn crouch like Wolff, ready to spring, his hands raised protectively. He was red-faced and panting: he had run after the car. They circled. Wolff was limping slightly. The sun was a huge orange globe behind them. Vandam. moved forward, then seemed to hesitate curiously. Wolff lashed out with the knife, but he had been surprised by Vandam’s hesitation, and his thrust missed. Vandam’s fist lashed out. Wolff jerked back. Elene saw that Wolff’s nose was bleeding. They faced each other again, like boxers in a ring. Vandam. jumped forward again. This time Wolff dodged back. Vandam kicked out, but Wolff was out of range. Wolff jabbed with the knife. Elene saw it rip through Vandam’s trousers and draw blood. Wolff stabbed again, but Vandam had stepped away. A dark stain appeared on his trouser leg. Elene looked at Billy. The boy lay limply on the floor of the car, his eyes closed. Elene clambered over into the back and lifted him onto the seat. She could not tell whether he was dead or alive. She touched his face. He did not stir. “Billy,” she said. ‘~Oh, Billy.” She looked outside again. Vandam was down on one knee. His left arm hung limply from a shoulder covered with blood. He held his right arm out in a defensive gesture. Wolff approached him. Elene jumped out of the car. She still bad the broken-off gear stick in her hand. She saw Wolff bring back his arm, ready to slash at Vandam once more. She rushed up behind Wolff, stumbling in the sand. Wolff struck at Vandam. Vandam jerked sideways, dodging the blow. Elene raised the gear stick high in the air and brought it down with all her might on the back of Wolff’s head. He seemed to stand still for a moment. Elene said: “Oh, God.” Then she hit him again. She hit him a third time. He fell down. She hit him again. Then she dropped the gear stick and knelt beside Vandam. “Well done,” he said weakly. “Can you stand up?” 336 Ken Follett
He put a hand on her shoulder and struggled to his feet. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he said. “Let me see.” “In a minute. Help me with this.” Using his good arm, he took hold of Wolfrs leg and pulled him toward the car. Elene grabbed the unconscious man’s arm and heaved. When Wolff was lying beside the car, Vandam lifted Wolfrs limp arm and placed the hand on the running board, palm down. nen he lifted his foot and stamped on the elbow. Wolff’s arm snapped. Elene turned white. Vandam said: “That’s to make sure he’s no trouble when he comes round.” He leaned into the back of the car and put a band on Billy’s chest. “Alive,” be said. “Thank God.” Billy’s eyes opened. “It’s all over,” Vandam said. Billy closed his eyes. Vandam got into the front seat of the car. “Where’s the gear stick?” he said. “It broke off. nat’s what I hit him with.” Vandam turned the key. The car jerked. “Good-it’s still in gear,” he said. He pressed the clutch and turned the key again. The engine fired. He eased out the clutch and the car moved forward. He switched off. “We’re mobile,” he said. “What a piece of luck.” “What will we do with WolffT’ “Put him in the boot.” Vandam took another look at Billy. He was conscious now, his eyes wide open. “How are you, son?” said Vandam. “I’m sorry,” Billy said, “but I couldn’t help feeling sick.” Vandam looked at Elene. “You’ll have to drive,” he said. There were tears in his eyes. 29
There was the sudden, terrifying roar of nearby aircraft. Rommel glanced up and aaw the British bombers approaching low from behind the nearest line of hills: the troops called them “Party Rally” bombers because they flew in the perfect formation of display aircraft at the prewar Nuremberg parades. “Take coverl” Rommel yelled. He ran to a slit trench and dived in. The noise was so loud it was like silence. Rommel lay with his eyes closed. He had a pain in his stomach. They had sent him a doctor from Germany, but Rommel knew that the only medicine he needed was victory. He had lost a lot of weight: his uniform hung loosely on him now, and his shirt collars seemed too large. His hair was receding rapidly and turning white in places. Today was September 1, and everything had gone terribly wrong. What had seemed to be the weak point in the Allied defense ]me was looking more and more like an ambush. The minefields were heavy where they should have been light, the ground beneath had been quicksand where hard going was expected, and the Alam Halfa ridge, which should have been taken easily, was being mightily defended. Rommel’s strategy was wrong; his intelligence had been wrong; his spy had been Wrong. The bombers passed overhead. Rommel got out of the trench. His aides and oflicers emerged from cover and gathered around him again. He raised his field glasses and looked out over the desert. Scores of vehicles stood still in the sand, many of them blazing furiously. If the enemy would only charge, Rommel thought, we could fight him. But the 337 338 Ken Follett