“Apparently,” Steiner said, “that never happened.”
Hasek shook his head. “Weeks went by, and I reminded them several times when I radioed in my usual reports, but nothing ever came of my requests. I don’t think Command wanted to bother wasting the resources to travel all this way and retrieve one gun. I even asked the resupply crews if they’d take it back with them, but no one wanted to bother since they’d not been ordered to do so in the first place, and they were worried towing the gun would slow them down.”
“So eventually, you decided to keep it?” Kessler asked.
“I decided to hide it away from prying eyes,” Hasek replied. “If the Tommies spotted it from the air, they might think we were more important than we are, and send someone to bomb us. This way, it is out of sight.”
Steiner’s eyes were adjusted to the darkness now, and he walked around the giant cannon, his eyes roaming over the pistons and gears of its mechanisms. Everything appeared in good working order.
“It is fully functional?” he asked.
Hasek nodded. “When we decided to keep it, we drilled for a few days, fired a crate of shells so we could gauge the fall of shot, get a feel for its mechanisms. The men might not be as good as a trained crew, but they can service the gun well enough.”
“Do you have any anti-tank shells?” Kessler asked.
Hasek walk further back into the tent. The SdKfz half-track that’d originally been tasked with moving the Flak 36 was right behind the gun, still loaded with crates of ammunition. Steiner wondered if they’d set the tent up around the gun and tractor exactly where they’d sat when the tractor’s engine had died.
Hasek climbed on the back of the SdKfz 7 and unclipped an electric torch from his belt, flicking the switch and shining the beam on the various crates of 88mm shells. The beam settled on several crates in the middle of the vehicle’s cargo bed.
“Three crates of Panzergranaten anti-tank shells,” he said. “We’ve fired a handful, but that’s it. We have high-explosive for both ground attack and air defence as well.”
Steiner looked at Kessler. “What do you think?”
The older officer stared up at the massive weapon for a long moment. Finally, he thumped the 88’s gun shield with a clenched fist.
“If we are smart, and we are careful, this changes everything,” Kessler said. “She can kill the Tommy cruisers at more than double the range of a Panzer III’s cannon. But we only have one, and limited ammunition. It would be easy to get over-confident.”
“Then we need a plan,” Steiner replied. “And to form a plan, we need better intelligence.”
“What do you have in mind?” Kessler asked.
Steiner turned to Hasek. “How soon can you get back into the air?”
“The Storch is fueled and ready,” Hasek replied. “I can be in the air sixty seconds after I climb into the cockpit.”
Steiner turned to Kessler and made a supplicating gesture with his hands. “I want to see the British with my own eyes. With your permission, Major?”
Kessler smiled and shook his head. “I’m certainly not getting into one of those kites. Be my guest, Hauptmann.”
Ten minutes later, Steiner was in the rear seat of Hasek’s Storch, as the aircraft lifted off from the desert and climbed into the air. Steiner had never flown in such a small plane before, and found the experience both exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. Every gust of wind buffeted the light plane, and Hasek constantly worked at the controls to keep them steady.
“The desert, it heats the air below us, which rises up and plays havoc with the plane’s controls,” Hasek explained.
Steiner nodded. He looked out the cockpit windows all around them, craning his neck to look in as many directions as possible.
“What do you do if we’re spotted by enemy fighter planes?” he asked.
Hasek laughed. “Hope their machine guns kill us before we burn up or hit the ground. If I die, I want to be in the air.”
“Not very reassuring!” Steiner replied. He glanced behind his seat, where he’d crammed a pack containing food, water bottles, a flare pistol and a box of cartridges, as well as a rifle. He’d originally thought it prudent to be prepared if they had to make an emergency landing, but Hasek’s cavalier attitude made Steiner wonder if he was being too optimistic in gauging his chances of surviving any kind of calamity. He looked up at the small circular window above and behind his seat.
“Why did you remove the machine gun?” he asked.
“No point to it, really,” Hasek answered without bothering to turn around. “Just extra weight, and we’d probably just shoot off our own tail. Besides, there’s always the slim hope that if the Tommies see we’re unarmed, they’ll just force us down. If we shoot at them, they’ll blow us out of the sky.”
Steiner sighed and tried to relax, giving in to the logic - however dubious - of Hasek’s argument. Instead, he took his field glasses from where they hung around his neck, and spent some time peering out from the Storch’s cockpit. From several kilometres up, the desert was, if anything, even more like the ocean; a vast, nearly featureless plain stretching away as far as the eye could see, to where the earth curved away along the horizon.
But as the flight went on, and Steiner studied the terrain more carefully, he began to notice the small differences, the creases and folds in the desert landscape, the low ridges and hills. Like any good field officer, he had an excellent eye for terrain, and soon Steiner began to imagine moving panzers and armoured cars across the ground below him, where he might set up anti-tank guns, or manoeuvre unseen by the enemy.
Before an idea formed completely in his mind, the thin column of smoke from the still-burning supply depot became obvious on the horizon, and Hasek steered the plane to take them in a wide circle around the depot. Several streams of tracers arched up from the ground and reached for them, but the Storch was too far away to be threatened, and the machine guns soon stopped firing.
Through his field glasses, Steiner saw the squadron of British tanks surrounding the depot. A lone tank sat several hundred metres away, probably knocked out in the attack, a cluster of antlike figures surrounding it. A wisp of smoke rose from a destroyed tank in the middle of the depot, likely an Italian M13/40, and there was a wrecked and smoking light truck about a hundred metres from the damaged British tank. While the squadron of tanks was clustered too closely together, the light trucks, as well as a half-dozen armoured cars - British and Italian - were spread out in a wide perimeter, well dispersed to protect from air attack.
“Their tank commander must be a fool,” Steiner said. “Look how close together he’s parked his squadron. If we had a flight of Heinkels, they’d be nothing but scrap metal.”
In the seat in front of him, Hasek nodded. “They haven’t moved since I made my first flight earlier this morning. I don’t know why, because they fired at me once before. At least the light trucks - those are probably their desert patrol men - have enough sense to disperse themselves.”
Steiner looked at his watch. “Alright, I’ve seen enough. Let’s get back and get on the wireless. If the man commanding those tanks is this stupid, it is an opportunity we can’t afford to pass up.”
“You’ll never get a flight of Heinkels sent out here, despite what we were just saying,” Hasek said. “Not for a target that small. Command won’t risk them.”
Steiner reached down and pulled a map from his case, scanning it for friendly airfields. After a moment, his eyes narrowed, and he chuckled to himself.
“Oberleutnant,” Steiner said, looking at the cluster of tanks far below them, “what is the maximum combat radius of a Stuka dive bomber?”
Chapter Eight
The Italian Supply Depot
November 16th, 1030 Hours
“There’s that bloody Storch again!” Tommy Lynch shouted to the other two members of his truck crew, both of whom were lounging in the shade of the Chevrolet while he stood watch.
“If Meade doesn�
�t move his arse soon,” Higgins replied from below, “we’re going to get bombed into little bits of buzzard bait. Just you see.”
Lynch shielded his eyes with his hand and looked up into the air at the German reconnaissance plane as it began to circle them at a safe distance. A couple of the nearest LRDG trucks began firing machine guns up at the plane, but the tracers fell well short, and after a few bursts, the men ceased fire.
“Lads, I’m going to see what’s keeping us here, so I will,” Lynch said. He caught up his Thompson and slung the weapon, the climbed down off the bed of the truck. “Higgins, you’re on watch, boyo.”
The other Commando let out a sigh and climbed up into the truck with a curse. Lynch began to walk back towards the depot, two hundred yards away. Although Meade apparently didn’t think air attack was likely, Eldred, Clarke, and Moody weren’t taking any chances, and they’d dispersed their vehicles in a wide pattern around the depot, keeping them from making a single close target.
Meade, however, didn’t see a need to spread out his squadron. The fifteen undamaged Crusader tanks formed a tight circle, with perhaps only thirty yards between tanks. Like a ring around a bloody bull’s-eye, Lynch thought. A flight of Heinkel bombers could swoop in, aiming for the depot, and their munitions would disperse enough to smash a good number of the lightly-armoured tanks in the process.
Lynch glanced across the desert to the one tank damaged in the attack. The Italian’s shot had shattered the lead sprocket wheel and severed the tread. Worse, the impact had bent the fitting between wheel and chassis, so replacing the destroyed wheel wasn’t even an option. The tank would require a carrier and repairs at a base, with the nearest being a couple hundred miles to the northeast. Meade was furious, of course; the loss of a tank so early in his mission was unacceptable to the Major. Lynch had seen him berating the tank’s crew for the loss of their vehicle, completely ignoring both the fact that none of the men had been injured, and that the crew had possessed the wherewithal to fire back against their assailant moments after being immobilized.
Further on in the desert, a curl of smoke still rose from the wrecked Chevrolet truck. Lynch had helped collect the bodies of two Commandos killed in the wreck, while the third crew member, a Desert Group man, had died from his injuries an hour later. One other Commando had died in the attack, while another had been badly wounded. As Lynch approached the area of the depot where the British officers were convening, he heard Eldred arguing with Meade.
“The weather is good, and we’re far from any enemy airbase known to possess fighters or attack aircraft,” Eldred was saying as Lynch approached.
“I’m afraid it is simply out of the question,” Meade replied. “Command isn’t going to risk a flight all the way out here for one man. Not with the operation so near at hand. He’s simply going to have to tough it out.”
Trooper Hall, the Commandos’ medic, was standing next to Eldred and clearly frustrated with Meade’s decision.
“Beg your pardon, sir,” Hall said, “but he can’t tough out internal bleeding. He’ll be dead in a day if we don’t get him medical attention immediately, because there’s nothing I can do for him here.”
Meade looked exasperated. “Well, that is terribly unfortunate. But we’ve got a mission to accomplish, and casualties were, and always are, the price we pay in war. You’ll just have to try and make him as comfortable as possible until he passes. We’ve got to hit that airfield tomorrow, and then move on to the next target the day after. That timetable is non-negotiable!”
Lynch had known Hall long enough to spot when the man was ready to cook off, and at that moment the medic was fit to be tied. But before Hall said something to get himself in trouble, Eldred interjected.
“Trooper, please, allow me to have a private word with the Major,” Eldred said.
After a long moment, Hall nodded and walked away. Lynch busied himself with pretending to lace up his boots as he continued to listen in on the conversation.
“Sir, I understand your position,” Eldred said, “but I ask that you reconsider. You’re new to the field, and especially, new to these men. Both the Kiwis and my lads are top-notch troops, and that’s in part because they’re possessed of a keen fighting spirit, and a very strong morale. But if these lads get to grumbling amongst themselves, why, they’ll lose the edge that makes them so bloody good at what they do, and we can’t afford to have that happen. Not all the way out here, Major.”
“Get to the point, William,” Meade shot back.
“Sir, try to raise Command on the RT. Put in a request for a plane. If you do it, you’re showing the lads you’re thinking of their welfare, that you’re looking out for them. Part of our job as officers is to reassure these lads that someone cares, someone’s taking care of their needs.”
Meade bristled at Eldred’s comment. “Captain, I’ll not have you lecturing me on what conduct befits an officer! I’ve served for many years-”
“Sir, with respect, Bovington isn’t a field command in wartime. I’ve been under fire nearly every year I’ve been in uniform. If you fight for these lads, they will fight for you. If you do not, morale will crumble, and this mission will fail. It is that simple.”
For a few seconds, Lynch believed Meade would continue to refuse Eldred’s suggestion, but finally the Major’s posture softened just a little, his shoulders drooping slightly as he looked around conspiratorially.
“Alright Captain, I’ll make the request. I am not completely ignorant of the fact that an officer must make a show of things now and then, for the benefit of the other ranks,” Meade said in a low voice Lynch almost missed.
The major walked away towards the Italian’s wireless tent and Lynch saw Eldred let out a visible sigh of relief. The Commando captain caught Lynch’s eye as the Irishman finished pretending to tie his laces and stood up. Eldred walked over to him, and Lynch offered a salute that was quickly returned.
“Trouble with your laces, Corporal?” Eldred asked with a smirk.
“All sorted out now, Captain, so they are,” Lynch replied.
Eldred glanced skyward, towards the circling Storch. “Like a buzzard, that one. Second time he’s come back. The lads are ready and alert for an air attack?”
Lynch nodded. “Aye, sir. That they are.”
“Good, that’s good,” Eldred said. He stood for a moment, clearly mulling something over. “Lieutenant Price tells me you’re a good lad to have in a tough scrap.”
“I try to do my part, so I do now, sir,” Lynch replied.
“We are a very long way from any other friendlies, Corporal,” Eldred continued. “And, we’re walking a very thin line between success and failure. I need men who can keep their heads about them and get stuck in, when a lesser soldier might think it’s time to leg it. Do you understand?”
“I think so,” Lynch replied. “You don’t have to worry about me, Captain. Me and the other lads, Price’s lads I mean, we’ve been in some bloody tough spots. We won’t let you down.”
Eldred nodded. “Excellent. Now then, since you’re done eavesdropping on officers’ private conversations, get on back to your truck and prepare to move out within an hour.”
“We’re finally ready now?” Lynch asked. “Beg pardon, Captain, but the lads and I have been wondering, that we have. Seems we were burning a bit o’ daylight.”
“Major Meade was most distressed with the state of his damaged tank,” Eldred replied. “He also wanted to interrogate the Italian commander and glean any...intelligence the man might have to offer. The process took considerable time, with very little to show for it, I’m afraid.”
“What are we to do about the Eyeties, Captain?” Lynch asked.
“Well, we can’t very well just shoot them, can we?” Eldred said lightly. “And we can’t bring them along with us. However, Meade is adamant that we make sure his precious tank is salvaged, so he’s going to leave the crew with it. We’ll give them all Thompsons and make sure the Italians are unarmed, leave enough
food and water for them all to rest comfortably until the recovery vehicle arrives. We’ll leave one of the Italians’ lorries as well, take the other with some petrol and ammunition, along with the armoured car that survived the attack. Not a bad bit of plunder, although I wish we hadn’t lost so many lads. Next time I’ll let Meade have his way and lead the bloody charge with his Crusaders. We’re to hit a reconnaissance airfield some ways north of here at first light tomorrow morning. That shouldn’t be quite so tough a nut to crack.”
“I won’t mind stepping aside and letting a bloody great big tank get shot at instead of me, to be sure,” Lynch said.
“Wise lad,” Eldred said with a smile. “Now, off you go, and spread the word that there’s just enough time for a brew up. We’re going to move out as soon as we hear from Command about that medical flight.”
“Do you think they’ll send a plane, sir?” Lynch asked hopefully.
Eldred shook his head. “No, they won’t. But Meade had to make the request anyway.”
“Oh, I see, sir. That poor bugger never had a chance, did he?” Lynch asked.
“I’m sorry, Corporal, but if we wanted to die of old age, we wouldn’t have volunteered to join a Commando unit.” And with that, Eldred turned and walked towards the wireless tent.
“Speak for your own bloody self,” Lynch muttered, as he watched Eldred depart, while overhead, the Storch slowly buzzed away, heading north.
“Aye, off with you now,” Lynch muttered. “Maybe you’ll run out of petrol and drop out of the sky, do us all a favor. If not, we’ll see you in the morning. Have a brew ready.”
Chapter Nine
Twenty Miles North Of The Depot
Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume II Page 6
