Historical Thriller
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
British (England - South East - Oxford, Sussex) British (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
Erwin Rommel removed the goggles that had been sheltering his eyes from the desert. Sand stepped out of his Hawk armoured cab, really, and walked to the edge of the cliff perched over the east Mediterranean Sea. He was a sober man of medium height. His sharp, inquisitive eyes scanned the horizon as if his next military target were due north rather than west. His gaze remained fixed across the water. In a day that was coming to an end, the general inhaled a deep breath of the fresh and humid air blowing from the sea, a sudden relief from the heat of a scorching and unforgiving North African sun. His lungs felt an immediate balsamic cooling. The evening Jew was starting to appear on the few blades of surviving grass. He could hear the soft back wash of the waves crashing on the narrow beach at the bottom, foamy and shining in the glow of the last rays of light. Von Mel Antonin, his intelligence officer, had travelled with him up there just outside Ghazala. After a 20 minute car trip on the road along the rugged east coast of town, he handed the general a cup of mint tea that Rudolf Schneider, Rommel's driver, had rushed to pour from a field thermos as soon as they stopped the desert. Fox, as he came to be known for his daring manoeuvres that routinely outwitted an enemy in far greater number, had adopted this habit from the Berber tribes that had been roaming over those lands for centuries. He found a drink quite refreshing, despite the heat of the liquid. Von melon tin lit a cigarette, observed the spiral of smoke that came out from his lips, then looked at Rommel. He wondered if a Roman general or a Persian, or even a cartoon Egon commander before him had stood in that same vantage point to admire the vastness of the sea while plotting his next move. Time and time again, Libya had been a land of conquest by the powerful empires of the ancient past, and now it was the turn of the mighty Third Reich. Rommel turned around and began to observe the hauntingly beautiful Junes of the desert. A hawk was screaming high in the silent, clear sky, which was rapidly turning to a deeper blue. Now what a stark contrast with its earlier blinding whiteness. The clouds of dust and the infernal noise of the heavy artillery in the battle that had raged until a few hours before the panzers of the German Africa Corps and the Italian Arrietty division tanks had defeated the eighth Army of the British Forces, which was left flying in disorder in a relentless attack. His men, fighting like devils, had conquered the all important Ghazala line west of Tobruk, taking a substantial number of enemy prisoners a landslide, an overwhelming victory achieved despite the desperate situation of his supply lines, Rommel had been receiving a third of what was necessary. That's what was on his mind right now, and he was furious if the Axis forces were to conquer Egypt, establishing there the solid stronghold necessary to capture the strategic oil fields of the Middle East, that vital flow had to reach full capacity. Instead, the convoys arriving from Italy had been sunk by the attacks of the Royal Air Force with astonishing regularity. Troops, guns, ammunition, vehicles, medical supplies, food and, above all, petrol were all sent to the bottom of the sea, slowing down the ability to push forward at the speed the general was capable of the situation was nothing short of disastrous. I should be well on my way to Cairo by now, Rommel said sourly. Tuvan, Millington. Instead, we are forced into a stop stuck here, waiting for the next shipment to Tripoli. If only we had adequate, uninterrupted and secure supplies, I would probably be. They're already looking at the pyramids from general, aka Lex for Luca on the Nile.