Lewis saw Steiner watching him out of the corner of his eye. The German smirked. “There isn’t a grain of sand within several kilometres radius that isn’t regularly swept by field glasses and covered by machine guns and cannons, Lieutenant.”
Lewis nodded and gestured towards one of the sangars. “I see you’re quite adept at the art of camouflage.”
“Out here in the desert,” Steiner replied, “when there isn’t any cover to hide under, you have to make your own.”
“You can’t hide the fort,” Lewis pointed out.
Steiner nodded, but smirked again. “That fort has been there for years in its current state, and when we arrive, I can show you the parts of it that existed from the time of the Romans. From the air, it appears to be unoccupied. Besides, your RAF ventures this far south only rarely. They’re too busy keeping an eye up north, along the coast, where the big battles are being fought, and when they do fly overhead, they’re looking for swarms of panzers, fuel dumps, or airfields.”
Under the watchful muzzles of several machine guns, the small convoy approached the base of the hill. Lewis noticed camouflaged netting disguising the shapes of several vehicles, and although he wasn't sure, Lewis hazarded a guess that several of them were Italian Autoblinda armoured cars. As they pulled to a stop near the parked vehicles, a number of men in Italian battledress emerged from hiding, each man carrying a rifle or machine pistol. Curiously, each Italian sported a plume of black feathers on the right-hand side of his helmet.
Steiner touched Lewis in the ribs with his Walther. “End of the road, as they say, Lieutenant. Please exit your vehicle - slowly, bitte.”
Warily eying the armed men surrounding them, Lewis eased himself out of the Morris’ turret and onto the sandy ground. He gave the body of the car a couple of soft thumps.
“Alright, lads. Out nice and slow.”
The remaining two crew members climbed out and stood shading their eyes from the sudden glare of the early afternoon sun, having been bottled up inside the car since mid-morning. Lewis saw that as each of the lorries pulled to a stop, the driver was ushered out of the vehicle by his German guard. The seven men aboard Steiner’s captured Bedford climbed out of the back after the machine gun team had disembarked with their weapon and its tripod. Eventually, all sixteen British soldiers were standing in the sun, most with one hand shielding their eyes, the other hand rubbing aching backs or bums.
As soon as Freddy laid eyes on Lewis, he ambled over and leaned in close. “Not much chance in making a break for it here, sir.”
Lewis shook his head. “We’re surrounded by machine guns, covered by at least two dozen men that we can see, and we’re...well I’m not sure where we are, to be honest. Somewhere northwest of Jerabub, would be my guess, but just how far, I’ve not the foggiest.”
“Sir, any orders for the rest of the lads, if we find ourselves separated?” Freddy asked.
“Every man is to cooperate fully with our captors,” Lewis stated firmly, seeing the defiant gleam in Freddy’s eye. “We’re at too much of a disadvantage here for any heroics. Steiner might be a tricksome Jerry blighter, but so far he’s kept his word about our fair treatment. We shan't give him any reason to go back on that agreement. Understood?”
Freddy’s lips drew into a tight line for a moment, but just as quickly he nodded, straightened up, and gave Lewis a salute. “Yes, Lieutenant.”
Lewis returned the salute and nodded for Freddy to carry on, as Steiner walked over to him. “Plotting your escape already?”
Lewis heard the humor in Steiner’s tone. “I’ve made it clear that no one is to get any...clever ideas. Besides, I think it is fairly obvious that we don’t really have anywhere to go,” he replied.
“Ja, this is true. A man would likely die of thirst and exposure miles from the nearest English outpost. But, enough of such things. Come, I will show you to your new home.”
Steiner and several of his Brandenburgers led Lewis and the other captives off to their left, away from the camouflaged vehicles and towards the steep slope of the hill. Lewis saw that several Italian soldiers were hammering man-high stakes into the sandy earth, while other men wound and stretched barbed wire between the stakes. Although Lewis wasn’t a country lad, he was reminded of a farmer’s cattle fence, perhaps something that might be seen out in the American West.
As the wire was being strung, other men were unrolling and laying out another large section of camouflage netting. With a couple of taller stakes planted in the middle of the confined area, Lewis saw that the netting would be set up as a kind of tent. Watching them work, he was struck by the speed and efficiency of the Italian troops; he’d only seen them up close as prisoners of war, or at a distance during an exchange of fire. Even so, their reputation among the British forces was less than flattering. He also noticed that the Italians ran everywhere they went, even if it was only a short distance. Perplexed, Lewis asked Steiner about the Italians’ odd behavior.
“I was given my pick of the 10th Bersaglieri,” Steiner replied. “An elite unit of light infantry, well-trained and highly motivated. They have been conditioned to run everywhere they go, even while carrying out mundane tasks. The black feathers they wear are the sign of their unit. A little conspicuous on the uniform of a modern soldier, but they are quite a sight.”
Lewis’ estimation of Steiner rose several notches. If a mere captain could pick and choose from the elite units of an ally’s army, just what kind of authority did he possess?
Soon, the Italians were finished, and the British were ushered inside the fence. Lewis was held back from entering with the rest by a touch on his arm from Steiner.
“You will eventually be confined with the rest of your men, Lieutenant. However, as one officer to another, I would like to share a meal with you up in the fort.”
Lewis saw Freddy and the others looking at him from underneath the dappled shade of the camouflaged netting as the Italians secured the last few strands of wire. The men were unsure of just what his separation from them meant.
“I won’t eat unless I know my men will be taken care of at the same time,” he replied.
Steiner nodded. “Of course. We shall give them water now, but then they will be given tools and ordered to dig a latrine pit in the corner of their confinement. Once that is done, they will be provided a meal. From now on, you will be fed twice daily, morning and evening, and an extra half-ration of water given in the middle of the day.”
Lewis grunted his acceptance of Steiner’s terms. Given the sparse rationing of food and water that combat troops lived with in the desert, Steiner was being considerably generous with his provisions, especially the water.
“You must have quite the cistern, to be able to water us like we’re houseplants, Captain,” Lewis said.
Steiner grinned, and motioned for Lewis to follow him. “Come, let me show you the font from which my generosity flows.”
They walked back towards the center of the hill’s crescent, this time walking behind and underneath the camouflage netting that covered Steiner’s motor pool. As Lewis had guessed, the netting concealed a half-dozen Autoblinda armoured cars, each painted in desert tones, all appearing well-maintained and ready to depart at a moment’s notice. There was also a Kübelwagen and a German Opel Blitz, both bearing the palm tree and swastika of Rommel’s Afrika Korps.
Soon they passed by the vehicles and came to a stop at a circular well of stacked stone, covered by a wooden lid. A hand pump was driven into the ground next to the well, with a curled length of rubber hose attached to the pump. Steiner lifted the lid and gestured for Lewis to look inside. The well was dark and the angle of the sun was such that he didn't see anything, but Steiner dropped a small pebble into the well, and after a moment Lewis heard the distinct splash of the pebble entering deep water.
“An underground spring flows below us,” Steiner explained. “We think it is one of the waterways that feeds the Jerabub oasis, far to the southeast. I don’t think they miss wha
t we take away for our own purposes.”
“Bloody brilliant,” Lewis murmured. “You’ve got your own water supply. No wonder you can sit out here in the desert with so many men.”
Steiner nodded. “We need other consumables, of course, but it is much easier to bring food and fuel, rather than water, this far into the desert.”
“I suppose this well was here before you arrived?” Lewis asked.
“Ja, it might date back to when the Romans built the fort; a crack in the stone here might have brought some trickle of water to the surface. The well had collapsed when the Italians found it years ago, but they dug it clear and rebuilt it.”
As Steiner spoke, one of his Italians ran up to them, and with a nod to Steiner, picked up the end of the hose and dropped it into the well, the length flowing through his fingers until Lewis heard the end hit the water. The Italian then positioned a water can under the mouth of the pump and started to work the handle. After a minute of hard labor, clear, bright water began to pour from the pump’s nozzle, and soon the water can was full. Another Italian approached at a run and took that can away, while a third jogged over carrying two other cans.
“Come,” Steiner told Lewis, “let us make our way up to the fort.”
The two walked away, in the opposite direction from where his men were kept, and eventually they approached a set of iron rungs hammered directly into the rock of the hill. The rungs had been painted a light khaki color to help them blend in. Steiner began to climb, and Lewis followed, quickly discovering that even with their light-colored paint job, the iron rungs were scorching hot to the touch. Several times Lewis felt himself teetering on just his toes as he played a kind of “hot potato” with the ladder, shifting his hold from one hand to the other every few seconds to keep from burning his palms.
Eventually they made it to the ridgeline, Steiner offering Lewis a steadying hand at the top of the ladder. Turning and looking back, Lewis was stunned for a moment by the spectacular view across the desert. From fifty feet up, the horizon pushed back a few miles, and the sheer enormity of the desert became even more evident.
“Quite the view from up here,” Lewis said.
Steiner chuckled. “At first, it just appears to be more of nothing, yes? But after a while, you begin to appreciate the epic scale of the desert. It is an ocean of sand and rock, a whole new world for Europeans such as ourselves, men used to forests and green grass.”
The two men began to make their way along a rough path to the fort. From this vantage point, signs of modern inhabitants were more obvious; sangars with mortars and 20mm anti-aircraft cannons were hidden by more netting, and each emplacement contained one or two men with field glasses, constantly scanning some quadrant of the desert or the sky above.
“That must be quite the monotonous task,” Lewis remarked.
“It is, but of course, our lives depend on constant vigilance. The men know dereliction of duty here comes with a death sentence.”
“Is there ever anything to see?” Lewis asked.
“Desert people wandering past, from time to time. Some of them know we are here, but they leave us alone. I offer an extra water ration or other luxuries to the first man on watch who spots movement, so it becomes a challenge to the men.”
Steiner led Lewis into the fortress, the doorway guarded by an Italian sentry with a Beretta machine pistol across his chest. The sentry’s serious mien coupled with his black-feathered helmet seemed to Lewis a bit ridiculous, but the soldier’s bearing and demeanor suggested that he best keep his opinions to himself.
Once inside the courtyard, Lewis saw that almost every piece of equipment, every supply crate or container, every weapon or other item was either covered by some kind of camouflage, or had a cover nearby, ready to be used. Lewis guessed that once an air alert was given, everything was covered or moved inside and out of sight.
They disappeared into one of the fort’s rooms off the courtyard, a large, narrow hall that served as the mess. Lewis and Steiner sat at a wooden table on folding stools and were served by one of the Italians. Tin mess plates of biscuits, marmalade, cheese, and bully beef were served, as well as tin cups of water, kept relatively cool by the well. Lewis chuckled in spite of himself at the fact that they ate British rations captured from his own convoy.
“Is everything to your liking?” Steiner asked, without a hint of insincerity.
“Other than the fact that my captors are serving me the very supplies I was supposed to protect, everything is just fine. Forgive me for finding my situation somewhat embarrassing.”
“Ah, yes,” Steiner replied. “It is rather insensitive, but necessary. Your supplies will provide us with food for several weeks, and much-needed fuel for our vehicles and our generator. I thank you again for cooperating, and not putting us in a position where we had to not only end your lives, but destroy your convoy as well.”
A thought occurred to Lewis. “Your English is quite good, Captain. May I ask where you studied?”
“My father is a businessman, working for Siemens.” Steiner replied. “Before the war, my family lived in England for five years, and I went to school there, in London. When the Heer began to mobilize, those of us who spoke English well were recruited and asked to serve in special units. So, here I am.”
Lewis wondered how a wealthy German who studied in England and spoke the language of his enemies fluently found himself stationed in North Africa, out in the middle of the desert, with only a handful of other Germans and some Italians to keep him company. Was this a punishment of some kind, or was the chance to put Lewis and his lads in the bag worth Steiner’s talents?
Steiner wiped a biscuit crumb from the corner of his mouth and smiled. “I suppose it is my good fortune to have taken you prisoner, because now I have a conversation partner who appreciates stories from my days living in your country.”
“Good fortune, indeed...” Lewis muttered, eyeing his last biscuit.
Chapter 4
Over Mersa Matruh, Egypt
October 28th, 0400 Hours
Lynch peered out of the front cockpit windows of the modified Halifax bomber, looking down at the Egyptian coastline. Only a thin line of phosphorescence from the surf gave any clue they were approaching land; every man-made structure below was dark with strict blackout discipline. The nose of the bomber was pointed down fifteen degrees, and Lynch’s hands were white-knuckled as he held onto the doorframe leading into the cockpit.
“You daft wanker, what’re you doing out of your seat?” the co-pilot shouted at Lynch when he was noticed. “Go back and sit down, we’ll be on land in a few minutes, provided we don’t hit the water at several hundred knots!”
The aircrew laughed, as if the co-pilot’s comment about crashing was the height of comedy. Lynch managed to turn himself around, still clutching at the airframe, and walked back to his spot on the makeshift canvas bucket seating bolted to the aircraft’s fuselage. Lynch made eye contact with Lieutenant Price, who just shook his head.
“I told you they wouldn’t want you nosing about the cockpit, Corporal,” Price said.
“Just needed to see outside this big cigar sleeve, sir,” Lynch muttered, sitting down.
This was the first long flight Lynch had ever taken. He’d been on short hops before, but they’d all been over English soil, in fair weather and with little danger of German air attack, poor weather, or zero visibility. Over the last two nights, however, the Halifax had carried them low over the water and without running lights in the dead of night, flying around Spain and Portugal to finally land on Gibraltar. For the sake of operational security, the plane was taxied into a hangar, where they were allowed to get out and walk around, eat a hot meal, and sleep on cots during the daylight hours. However, they boarded again and flew out after dark to make the long, harrowing journey lengthwise across the Mediterranean.
A few minutes ago, the Halifax had gained some altitude, and was now in its final landing approach. Lynch felt the plane shuddering in the ai
r, fighting to keep from stalling as its speed and altitude decreased in just the perfect proportions for a safe landing. Fighting to remain calm, Lynch clutched at the wooden frame of his seat, forcing his mind to think of the process involved in field-stripping his Thompson, anything to keep out thoughts of the Halifax hitting the water and disintegrating, every man inside either torn to pieces and battered about by the wreckage, or drowned inside the crumpled fuselage, fingers scrabbling and scratching at the sheet metal as they fought to escape, the pressure rising, forcing the water down throats opened in a final, futile scream...
Lynch stifled what would surely have been a hysterical shriek as the Halifax jolted on impact, but the lack of cold, rushing water, or a fireball rolling through the interior of the fuselage, assuaged his fears of a horrific death. Lynch opened his eyes, not realizing that he’d closed them, and saw his squadmates sitting around him, several of them looking at him and chuckling.
“Typical bloody Irishman,” Nelson laughed. “You’ll charge Jerries with nought but a knife in your hand, but a wee plane ride and you’re near to wetting your trousers.”
“Typical bloody Englishman,” Lynch retorted. “Too stupid to understand that if man was meant to fly, God would have given him wings. You’d be laughing all the way to the bottom of the Med if we’d hit the water instead of the runway.”
“The two of ye,” Sergeant McTeague rumbled from further down the row of seats. “Why must I always tell ye to shut yer flapping gobs?”
Nelson grinned at Lynch, who returned his look with a rude gesture and a wink.
By now the Halifax had taxied off of the landing strip, and glancing forward through the cockpit, the Commandos saw were being brought inside another hangar. The engines slowed to idle, then quit one after another, and the silence after so many hours of their deafening roar was a little unsettling.
Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume I Page 32
