Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2)

by Charles S. Jackson

  “Well, everything’s still open from the Great Bitter Lake heading south for fear of cutting of shipping access to the RAF bases up there, but the defences at Fayid are likely to be overrun when the next assault comes and orders have been issued to prepare for evacuation of Kibrit as well… minelayers are starting to work the lakes even as we speak…” Monty informed, providing up-to-date news the Australian hadn’t been aware of.

  “Then the end really is coming if they’re closing off the rest of the canal…” Thorne mused softly. He’d not yet been made aware of any new instructions to lay mines in the remaining southern sections of the Suez Canal but he did know the decision had previously been made to hold off as long as possible.

  “All the same,” he added with a shrug, “we’re going to do our bit to give the Krauts and the Italians a good clip in the ear here or there while we’re about it,” Thorne grinned again, trying to lighten the mood a little. “I’d like to say I’ve more of those tanks out there to give you…” He tilted his head slightly, as if conceding a silent mental point within his own head. “… In fact, I’d love to be able to say I had more of ‘em but the truth is, those two big buggers out there behind us are the only two yet built. There are more coming sure enough – I’ve been in North America for the better part of a year working to ensure we have production lines set up to have thousands of them being built within the next six to twelve months, but thousands of tanks in a year’s time isn’t going to help your plight right here and now.” He shrugged again.

  “Unfortunately this isn’t much more than a field test for the equipment back there… a ‘live-fire exercise’ in the best possible testing conditions there are: a real battlefield. I’m willing to bet these two will have a huge impact on whatever gets thrown our way in the next few days or weeks, but I’m still ultimately expecting we’ll be forced to withdraw to Suez sooner or later. All I need from you are two experienced tank crews my people can train up and we’ll be just fine…”

  “Isn’t it a little dangerous bringing the only two prototypes you have into a theatre of war?” Montgomery asked, thinking the question a huge understatement.

  “You sound like my commanders back home,” Thorne replied with a chuckle. “They were none too pleased when they first heard about the idea, and I’ll admit it’s risky, but it’s still the best opportunity for field testing we’ve got and we may not get another opportunity once Egypt falls… not anytime soon anyway.”

  “You keep saying ‘the two tanks’, yet the ack-ack vehicle you’ve brought with you is as unique as the others… I’ve never seen one like it and I’m willing to wager not many others have.”

  “You mean ‘Ivan’…?” Thorne asked with mock innocence. “Oh, he’s mine… we’ll not have the technology to build any more like him for a few years yet.” The answer, if it were an answer at all, was intentionally enigmatic and explained very little in any real sense. “You’re right on both counts though,” the Australian added quickly, thinking it best not to frustrate the general too much. “It’s true title is a ‘Pantsir-S1’ upgrade variant of a ‘2K22M Tunguska’ and believe it or not, it was originally designed by the Russians. Ironic I suppose, but it was the best unit we could get hold of at the time for the job at hand.” He forged on, ignoring the sceptical expression on Monty’s face at the thought that vehicle could’ve been designed by the Soviet Union. “Got another one back at home; brought this fella along to keep an eye out for any airborne nasties. She’ll do the trick too, mark my words: those cannon’ll toast anything that flies within four thousand yards.”

  “… And the rockets it keeps in those tubes by the guns…?”

  “Don’t miss much, do you sir?” Thorne grinned back, impressed with the man’s powers of deduction. “Well… let’s just say, anything thinking about coming any closer than twelve miles would want to think long and hard about it…”

  “Intriguing,” Monty mused slowly, not sure if he could believe such a tale but willing to let the issue slide for the time being. “Now… if we’re going to be testing these tanks of yours, why don’t you tell me a bit more about them...?”

  “My pleasure, sir,” Thorne positively beamed as the conversation reached the point he’d been intending it to direct it to all along. “We call these prototypes an AC-1 ‘Sentinel’. I believe the Americans are going to be classifying them as an M6 Pershing: a follow-on to the M4-series of armoured fighting vehicles they already have in service. Considering the Commonwealth nations have just entered into an ‘agreement in principle’ with the United States to standardise model numbering of weapons systems, I suspect we’ll probably end up calling it an M6 too, although I hope the ‘Sentinel’ title sticks rather than naming it after some mouldy old Yank general.” Thorne sounded a good deal more passionate about a simple tank name that the general would’ve thought was necessary.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “allow me to show you a little presentation we’ve prepared that’ll give you a full run-down of what these vehicles can do.”

  “A ‘presentation’…?” Montgomery baulked at the idea. “I don’t imagine you’ve got a screen or a slide projector in that little bag of yours even if we did have enough space in this contraption to set them up.”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised what I can fit into this little bag of tricks, general,” Thorne countered melodramatically. “Just call me ‘Felix’…”

  The reference was lost on Montgomery, as although the cartoon character Felix the Cat had been appearing in film and print since 1919, Thorne himself had no idea that the 1942-era Felix hadn’t yet been given the signature ‘bag of tricks’ he remembered from cartoons of his own childhood. Ignoring the man’s quizzical expression, Thorne opened the flap on the satchel sitting in his lap and drew out a thin, flat panel of plastic and glass that measured approximately 24cm x 19cm and appeared to be little more than a centimetre thick.

  “You’re going to use chalk and a small blackboard…?” The sarcastic question carried little malice but was notably derisive all the same. “I should think it would take…”

  Montgomery’s words trailed off into silence as Thorne pressed a finger gently against a small button at the bottom edge of the rectangular device’s front face. In an instant, what had at first appeared to be opaque, black glass suddenly became alight with colours, images and strange icons the likes of which the general had never before encountered. Turning the screen to face him for a moment, Thorne deftly jabbed a finger gently here and there against its face, activating several applications before handing it across to Montgomery.

  “Who on earth are you…?” The GOC of the 8th Army demanded softly, a combination of astonishment and suspicion showing on his face as he gingerly took hold of the device and turned it over in his hands, glancing down momentarily at the screen but mostly unable to shift away from staring directly into the Australian’s eyes.

  “General, I’ve no doubt you’ve heard a few rumours about me over the last two years… it appears just about every officer in the Commonwealth higher than captain pretty much has…” Monty could only nod slowly as an animated, cartoon like motion picture began to play on the screen he held, the soft sound emanating from a speaker somewhere in the device’s casing too low to be heard over the roar of the Humber’s engine and the road noise around them. “Well general, I’ve heard most of ‘em too,” Thorne continued, and for the first time since they’d met, Bernard Law Montgomery saw nothing but complete seriousness in the man’s eyes and demeanour. “… And I can tell you right now; some of them – some would say the strangest of them – are absolutely true…!” The earnest expression couldn’t last for long, and a wry grin soon reappeared. “I’m quickly becoming the worst-kept Commonwealth ‘secret’ there is… a fact that’s at least partially my fault…” He nodded down at the first-generation iPad the man held in his hands. “Watch the presentation, general… after that, I’ll tell you anything you want to know…”

  It was well into the night by the time the
convoy reached Agruda, coming to a halt on the northern side of the main road at the 2/28th Battalion CP, a kilometre or so west of the township. Half a dozen Nissen huts had been erected in loose groupings surrounded by a dozen or so large army tents. The command post’s communications were housed there, along with a casualty clearing station and numerous other facilities kept within. Sandbags and wooden frames strung with coils of barbed-wire surrounded the entire complex, providing some level of protection and security for the pairs of armed guards patrolling the area. There were a few Egyptian servants and contract workers going about their business within the perimeter, but the great majority of those present were Australian Army with just the occasional British officer visible – or, more accurately, audible – as the men of the CP got on with the task of supporting the troops at the front line and all the associated duties that entailed.

  The convoy’s arrival caused quite a stir amongst those present as it motored out of the darkness at a leisurely pace and pulled into the side of the Cairo-Suez Road level with the cluster of huts and tents. The sound of their approach – particularly that of the tracked vehicles – could be clearly heard for some time prior to their actual appearance, and there wasn’t a man in the area who didn’t stop what they were doing for a moment to watch in awe as the line of vehicles came to a halt with what appeared to be three huge tanks in their midst, bathed in the stark lighting of the trucks’ headlights and the general floodlighting spread about the buildings of the CP.

  The doctors and orderlies of the Australian 2/2nd Casualty Clearing Station were generally happy that so far at least, there hadn’t been much work to be done since they’d set up camp at Agruda three weeks before. They all knew that situation wouldn’t last much longer, but were happy to enjoy a small respite before the battle recommenced. All of those on duty had stepped out of their Nissen huts to stand and stare at the new arrivals, along with one or two of the patients currently being treated – those well enough to move about without any difficulty.

  Captain Davids was among them, as intrigued as the rest as he stood by the entry door to the CCS and lit a cigarette. A thick wad of dressing covered the wound above his eye, held there by a thin strip of gauze bandage that wrapped completely around his head. The injury had required six stitches – not so bad in itself – but he’d also felt groggy and slightly unsteady on his feet most of the morning, and the doctors suspected he may have sustained a mild concussion into the bargain. There was no real treatment assigned to him save for simple paracetamol to address the pain, but it also meant he was expected to rest for at least the next 48 hours with regular observation over the first twenty-four to make sure there were no underlying complications.

  Lifting the cigarette to his lips, Davids took a thoughtful drag and blew a plume of smoke into the dry air as he stared across at the main road, amazed by the size of the tanks parked a few dozen metres away. He’d been ordered to rest and that meant no return to his unit for two days at least, but no one had specifically instructed that he was restricted to his bed for the whole time. He decided in that moment that he might as well take any opportunity available to at least relieve some of the boredom of standing about doing nothing. With one last puff of his smoke, he flicked it to the ground and made a great show of grinding it into the sand with his boot before walking off at a slow but steady pace toward the convoy.

  Major Neville Knowles also was present at the Agruda CP as the vehicles rolled up, having been summoned in advance by radio as they’d driven out from Suez. His own tank – also a Firefly Mark I – waited nearby, the rest of his crew taking a few moments’ break and as stunned by the new arrivals as everyone else. Knowles was already standing by the lead Humber as Montgomery and Thorne climbed out, shielding their eyes momentarily against the harsh glare of the nearest floodlights pointing directly at them.

  “Welcome back to the front, general,” he began as the trio met, coming to attention and presenting a stiff salute that was instantly returned by Montgomery. “Got your message – only just arrived myself.”

  “Very good, Major… very good…” Monty gave a thin smile in return. “I gather your boys came in for some stick this morning?”

  “Just a spoofing raid, sir… third time this month,” Knowles shrugged in resignation. “They send a flight of aircraft to draw our fire then walk their arty onto our positions as soon as we show ourselves…”

  “… And of course if you do nothing, the aircraft get a carte blanche invitation to drop something on your heads instead,” Thorne finished with a knowing smile of his own. “Not much you can do about that, major… you’re stuck either way…” He stepped forward and extended a hand. “Air Vice Marshal Max Thorne… you’d be Major Knowles of 3RTR then?”

  “That’s correct, sir,” Knowles replied quickly. “…Wasn’t expecting to see the RAF represented here today.”

  “Oh, I suspect you’ll see a lot more you’ve not been expecting before the week’s out, major,” Thorne shot back with a conspiratorial wink, “but it’s all in the name of good, clean fun, I can assure you… well… good fun, anyway…”

  “The air vice marshal takes a little getting used to, major,” Monty informed drily, “but you’ll find what he has to show you very interesting. He was hoping you might be able to recommend two tank crews we could make use of for…”

  The general’s words trailed off as the sound of a minor altercation nearby caught their attention. Turning, all three were presented with the sight of Jimmy Davids with his back up against the side of XFV002 ‘Elwood’, surrounded by a trio of MPs armed with M2 assault rifles. Despite a clearly bandaged head, the man was standing firm against his antagonists and his body language suggested he wasn’t about to back down. The actual dialogue was indistinct but it was clear the group were none too pleased someone had come so close to the vehicles. Thorne stared long and hard at the man, something flickering in his mind as the uncanny sensation came over him that they’d somehow met.

  “Anyone know who that bloke is…?” He asked immediately with a deep frown, searching his own memory for an answer to the identity of the familiar face.

  “That would be Captain Davids,” Knowles answered, fighting off the instinctive urge to shake his head sadly over the fact that one of his junior officers had gotten himself in trouble right in front of the GOC and a high-ranking RAF officer. “… He’s one of my squadron commanders. His tank was damaged by artillery this morning and he was sent back here for treatment.” He released a soft sigh of disappointment. “It appears his curiosity’s gotten the better of him.”

  “So he’s a tanker?” Thorne asked, mostly to himself. That last small piece of information was all he needed to piece everything together, and memories came flooding back to him of a few hours spent in the company of the men of 7RTR, on that terrible afternoon of the German invasion of Britain. “I met him two years ago in Kent… Welsh bugger... he was a sergeant then, I believe…”

  “Exactly so,” Knowles nodded, surprised.

  “He’s come a long way since then – must be a natural in tanks to have made captain and gotten command of a squadron in just two years…”

  “He’s done a good deal more than that, sir,” Knowles advised slowly. “He’s won himself a Victoria Cross into the bargain…” As Thorne’s eyes flew wide in astonishment and he stared squarely at the major, Knowles added: “…I trust you’ve heard of the Slough Breakout…?”

  “That was him…?” It was amazing in itself that Thorne could appear any more amazed, but upon hearing that news he somehow managed it. “No wonder they gave the bugger a VC… nothing less would’ve been appropriate!”

  The beginning of an idea began to grow as the Australian unclipped the radio at his belt and held it to his lips.

  “This is Max,” he said simply into the microphone. “Are you reading me, Evan…?”

  “Loud and clear, sir…!” The reply was instantaneous.

  “No doubt you’re watching the stoush developing down by E
lwood…?”

  “Affirmative…”

  “I’d be very pleased if you could pop over and kindly ask those MPs to leave that poor sod alone … I fancy having a few words with him…”

  “Understood, sir …getting right on it…” Just a few seconds later, Lloyd and a pair of SAS troopers wearing sand-coloured berets appeared from behind one of the trucks at the rear of the convoy, making their way quickly toward the three MPs. All wore combat fatigues of that same, blotched pattern of browns, blacks and greens against a tan background and all were also armed with the -A2 folding-stock variant of the standard-issue M2 assault rifle.

  Thorne returned the radio to his belt and stood silently for a moment, oblivious to the world around him and quite clearly deep in thought.

  “Those crews I need, general,” he continued after a few more seconds, turning to face Montgomery and Knowles with a strange look in his eyes as he jerked his thumb back over his shoulder at the altercation they’d just been watching. “I want him in command of one of ‘em…!” He added simply, his tone leaving no room for argument or equivocation.

  3. Wolves in the Fold

  Chelsea & Fulham Railway Station (disused)

  West London Line, Fulham SW6

  Reich-Protektorat Grossbritannien

  September 17, 1942

  Thursday

  Harry Jenkins waited patiently behind the wheel of his 1934-model Austin 12/4 taxi as a convoy passed by in the opposite direction. Stationary on the eastern side of the Kings Road, Harry had been waiting to turn right into Wandon Road for a full five minutes now as a seemingly endless procession of troop-filled trucks and armoured fighting vehicles (AFVs) made its way past, heading north-west with agonising slowness. Traffic was backed up as far as Beaufort St, a distance of almost a thousand metres, although that seemed to matter little to the military police escorts sitting astride their BMW motorcycles at each intersection, submachine guns slung over their shoulders as they watched their charges with bored disinterest