Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2)

by Charles S. Jackson

  “Not sure what we’re gonna do about that then, fella, unless you’ve a mind to put ‘em out of their misery with that fancy ‘cannon’ o’ yours?” The Irishman hadn’t been entirely serious with the suggestion but there was a cold pragmatism in his tone all the same that indicated he wasn’t feeling greatly disposed to lending any assistance. His stance was backed up by several other crew members within earshot muttering words of assent that included comments such as “…Hear… hear…!” or “…Aye… fuck ‘em…!”.

  “Without this fog, Mister Kelly, the crew of that E-boat would most like have been discussing our fate instead…” Lowenstein observed softly, standing on the after deck a metre or so behind. “I’ve no great love for the Nazis, believe me, but I’ve no stomach for cold-blooded murder either.”

  “They’re only followin’ orders same as us, Eoin…” Michaels added after a moment of quite uncomfortable silence, eliciting a surprised reaction from Kelly over his support for showing some compassion as a similar number of others in the crew whispered their own soft phrases of agreement. “Like the man here says… could’ve been us treadin’ water right now and screamin’ for help.”

  “The whole fookin lot o’ y’ have gone soft in the bloody head!” Kelly snapped angrily, reacting to the pricking of his own conscience as much as he was feeling any external pressure. “We’re not even a recognised military unit – they’d have been in their rights to shoot us out of hand if they’d bloody caught us…” As he swung the wheel and brought the boat further around to starboard, turning the nose back toward the scene of the engagement, he raised a hand to silence any further protest. “…But…” he added slowly, regretting the decision already, “we’ll do what we can seeing as you silly buggers are so bloody certain y’ want to play the ‘Good Samaritan’ …

  “As this was your idea, Richard…” he directed that remark at Kransky “…you can do the honours. Back near the aft gun position there’s a couple of inflatable assault boats rolled up on the deck that we’ve used for some of our more difficult extractions here and there…” He gave another shrug, patting the bridge instrument console almost tenderly. “…Can’t see us needin’ ‘em any more seein’ as this old girl’s just about done for, so I guess we can pass ‘em on to some poor buggers that do… Strap each one of ‘em to a couple of spare life jackets and toss them out – they’ll get ‘em blown up soon enough if the bastards want ‘em.” Then he added, almost as an afterthought: “Hope you’re a fookin’ good throw; we’re streamin’ fuel all over the bloody place and I’m not goin’ anywhere near those fires!”

  Michaels and Lowenstein both came to Kransky’s assistance and between the three of them they readied a pair of inflatable rubber boats using lengths of thick rope to strap each securely to a pair of unused life jackets as Kelly had suggested. They worked quickly as the rest of the crew stood about watching, none making any effort to provide either hindrance or help, and had readied the equipment in less than five minutes. Another moment more and both of the makeshift life boats had been heaved over the side, both landing within a few metres of a few of the S-boat’s nearer survivors.

  “We can’t take you aboard; we’ve no room and we’re sinking ourselves,” Lowenstein called out to them, his tone almost apologetic as some continued to call desperately for assistance. Of all those on board, he was the only one who spoke fluent German, having learned the language while being held captive by the Nazis for almost a decade. “Use these lifeboats to stay safe. Head south – the beach is only two kilometres away.”

  “Are you done with the pleasantries, Mister La Forge?” Kelly snapped with obvious frustration, waiting only long enough to see that one of the swimming men had reached the nearest of the floating bundles before pushing the throttles forward and turning the MTB away to the south ones more. “Time’s a-wastin’: most of our diesel’s been pissed into the Irish Sea and I’ll feel a power happier when I’ve me feet upon dry land again.”

  Lowenstein glanced sharply back toward the Irishman from his position on the ship’s starboard side however he withheld any ill-considered reply, regardless of the displeasure that showed in his expression. Instead, the next words came from a quite unexpected direction as Kelly realised that the pair of teens the Jew had brought aboard with him were now standing directly behind him on the flying bridge.

  “Thank you, Mister Kelly,” the boy said simply, nothing other than honest thanks in his words and eyes as he met the Irishman’s gaze without any suggestion of backing down. “Thank you for giving those men the boats… they were sure to have died without them…” Kelly turned to stare back at the young man for a long time, both of them silent as Lowenstein looked on in fear from a distance and Kransky observed the scene with intense interest beside him.

  Kelly searched long and hard in that moment for any hint of sarcasm or disrespect and found none, the boy’s open integrity leaving him feeling far guiltier regarding what he’d said and done than any words of malice might have. In the end he could do nothing more than release a long, tired sigh of resignation and give a sullen nod of agreement.

  “Aye, t’was nothin’…” he paused, searching for a name he’d heard only once before as they’d been first introduced “…Levi… t’was no great thing, to be sure.”

  “Evelyn and I thank you all the same, sir,” the boy continued in that same honest, serious tone, “…a lot of men have died already tonight on both sides, all in the name of taking the three of us somewhere safe, and such a sacrifice shouldn’t go unrecognised. I know we don’t believe in the same church but if you’ve no objections, I’ll say a prayer to God tonight for Seamus and the others.”

  “Aye…” Kelly muttered awkwardly, turning his gaze forward once more and making a great show of keeping watch ahead. “…Aye, that’d be just fine, I’ll warrant.”

  Nodding to himself, as if solemnly satisfied that something important had been accomplished, young Levi turned and walked quickly away with the girl – Evelyn – following close behind. As the pair drew close to Lowenstein, he for a moment appeared as if he might issue a reprimand, then paused as if thinking more about the idea. In the end he managed a thin smile and instead laid a reassuring hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  “A fine thing that was, Levi… a fine thing. I’m proud of you.”

  “Mister Kelly’s a good man, Sam,” the boy replied in the same honest tone. “Good men always do the right thing in the end, even if they need a little help sometimes.” A smile crossed the young man’s lips for a moment as he remembered happier times.” Rabbi Blum used to talk about that stuff all the time at the temple before… before….” The smile disappeared just as quickly as other less pleasant memories also returned regarding what had happened to the rabbi and most of their prayer group following the 1940 invasion.

  “I know, Levi… I know…” Lowenstein replied sadly, recalling all too well the fate of those of whom the boy spoke. “Why don’t you take Evie into the wheelhouse for some shelter – it won’t be much warmer but it’ll be out of the wind at least.”

  With a single, silent nod, Levi turned and raised an outstretched arm as if to gently guide the girl, Evelyn, and move her in the right direction. She complied immediately and without question, following along behind once more as they both sought what little shelter they could from the wind in the enclosed wheelhouse below the flying bridge.

  “He’s got a good heart, that kid…” Kransky observed softly, his eyes intently watching the man’s reactions as he spoke.

  “That he has… that he has…” Lowenstein replied in a voice almost breaking, and as he turned his back to Kransky, the American was surprised to notice that there were tears in the older man’s eyes.

  With leaking fuel still trailing behind in a long, oily slick, MTB 102 continued on at 15 knots – the best it could manage on one engine. The rising sun seemed brighter above now and more colourful than it had been – a sure sign that the fog was finally beginning to lift – but as they left the b
attle area behind, heading for the relative safety of the nearby coast, the faint cries of the survivors continued to haunt them as they faded into the mist.

  The wreckage of what was left of the schnellboot would continue to burn for some time, able to provide some nearby warmth at least for the twelve remaining crew who’d managed to drag themselves into the inflatable boats Kelly had thrown. They lashed the two craft together for safety, floating a few metres away from one of the larger fires as its radiant heat helped stave off the chill of the surrounding sea. Rescue wouldn’t be far away so long as they could survive the elements in the interim, and search-and-rescue craft would have no problem locating their position as the burning debris streamed long, rolling plumes of black, oily smoke that were carried away on the icy breeze and spread across the water for many kilometres downwind.

  7. Sacrificial Lambs

  Genaiva/Cairo-Suez Road intersection

  30km west of Suez, Egypt

  September 26, 1942

  Saturday

  Armed with a powerful, turret-mounted 23mm automatic cannon, the Autoblinda AB41 was an eight-wheeled, 13-tonne, licence-built copy of the Wehrmacht’s P-7A Puma armoured car. A versatile vehicle, the original model had quickly been adapted for such uses as field ambulances, ammunition carriers and mobile ELINT and RDF detection units.

  Maggior Generale Gervasio Bitossi watched from the commander’s hatch of his AB41 command vehicle as advanced recon units of the 3rd Cavalry Squadron moved off toward the east, disappearing into the distance beneath the blinding glare of the rising desert sun against the horizon. Lowering his binoculars, he cursed the timing of the attack and also cursed the orders he’d received from Rome that had demanded it.

  At fifty-eight years of age, Bitossi had commanded motorised or armoured units since the mid-1930s and as one of their most experienced proponents of mechanised warfare, he’d already written several papers on tactics and training that were required reading within the Italian military. He’d held the post of CO of the 133rd Armoured Division ‘Littorio’ for four years and was intimately aware of the capabilities, strengths and weaknesses of the men and equipment under his command.

  Having been made privy to the most recent intelligence reports received from the Abwehr and their Axis agents based in Suez, he was also very aware of the recent arrival of two large, unidentified tanks that had last been seen heading westward out of the city, their only likely destination being the Allied defensive lines at Agruda, approximately seven kilometres or so to the east of his position at that moment.

  With that information at his disposal, Bitossi had very much wanted to postpone that morning’s advance to allow time for the arrival of Wehrmacht heavy armoured units that were expected into Cairo within the next few days; units that would be equipped with the latest ‘D-model’ variant of the Germans’ powerful P-4 Panther tank. There was also the added difficulty of attacking directly into the glare of the rising sun, something that would leave them at a distinct disadvantage should they encounter any real opposition.

  Headquarters would hear none of his protests however. A full assault on all fronts was scheduled within a few days’ time and his commanders in Rome – no doubt at the behest of Berlin – were eager for a force of reasonable strength to test the mettle of their enemy prior to committing the entirety of their forces to battle.

  The major-general pulled the visor of his peaked officer’s cap further down to shield against the blinding sunlight and unconsciously stroked slowly at the edge of his greying moustache, his dark eyes fathomless as he considered the potential problems ahead. The loss of good men didn’t seem to mean a great deal to the Italian GHQ in Cairo and he knew for a fact that it meant nothing to Il Duce and his fascist government back in Rome. It did however mean a great deal to him and he had no interest in sacrificing the lives of his troops by throwing them into situations that left no hope of success.

  The general turned his head to his left and right in turn, staring off into either direction without expecting to see anything other than the empty expanses of desert nothingness that lay before him on both sides. Parked with a small cluster of light tanks and armoured cars that comprised the 133rd’s headquarters group, Bitossi’s Autoblinda was positioned across the Cairo-Suez Road just a few hundred metres west of the Genaiva Road intersection.

  To the south, the huge mountain ranges that formed the northern boundaries of the Eastern Desert reached past the borders of Egypt and on into Ethiopia and beyond, while to the north a smaller but no less obstructive range of low hills left just a comparatively narrow strip of flat, open desert through which trucks or armoured vehicles could safely transit that spanned no more than two or three thousand metres on either side of the Cairo-Suez Road.

  The 3rd Cavalry, being no more than a few dozen light tanks and other assorted armoured vehicles, was able to spread out relatively well as they moved off toward the enemy at a cautious pace however the Littorio Division would be expected to channel hundreds of tanks and support vehicles down that narrow strip when the order for a full assault came – and no one was under any illusion as to when that order would come.

  The last few months had been intentionally quiet with little advance or activity on either side as the Axis forces in North Africa paused to rearm re-equip battle-hardened regiments that were tired and worn out after almost two years of desert warfare. Those units were now flushed with the energy and strength of new men and equipment and their respective commands back in Berlin and Rome would now be expecting their well-rested troops to make light work of the meagre Commonwealth forces left defending Suez and the southern sections of the canal.

  “I hope our artillery can land their shells on target this time, signore,” Bitossi’s aide, Tenente Gaetano Cafarelli observed drily from where he stood directly behind the general, his upper body projecting from one of the large, open roof hatches above the Autoblinda’s rear hull.

  “Vaffanculo si,” Bitossi breathed with soft vehemence, lapsing into a moment of profanity as he all too vividly recalled several instances in the recent past where a combination of poor communication and worn-out cannon barrels had resulted in bombardments from Italian field batteries landing on top of their own advancing troops, in one case at least resulting in significant injury and loss of life. “It’s a sad thing to prefer the support of our allies over that of our own men, tenente, but I’d be happier with the guns of the tedeschi at our backs – the Germans seem to know how to put their rounds on target most of the time!”

  Their artillery had all been refurbished and the offending battery commanders had been court-martialled (one had in fact been shot out of hand), yet the issue of effective communication with their new, less-experienced replacements remained an unknown that left the bulk of the Littorio’s frontline troops with a distinct lack of overall confidence. His superiors in Rome would’ve seen such sentiments as ‘defeatist’ but as a combat commander, Bitossi needed live in the real world rather than within the imaginary ‘kingdom’ of imperial aspirations devised by Il Duce and the cabinet of sycophants with whom the fascist leader had surrounded himself.

  For his part, Cafarelli preferred to nod in agreement and keep his opinions to himself. He had his own thoughts on Italy’s situation and the abilities of their leaders back in Rome, and even if they might not have seemed too different to those of his own commander at times he kept his mouth shut all the same: he’d been in the army far too long not to know better.

  He was a man of barely average height, just twenty-nine years of age and born of hard-working, mountain stock. The lieutenant came from a small Sicilian village called Rometta, high in the hills above Messina, and prior to joining the army he’d spent his entire life in that town, helping out at his father’s blacksmith’s shop when he wasn’t keeping up with his studies. With dark eyes that matched his short-cut hair, the man’s moderate stature had made him a perfect candidate for the armoured corps while his intelligence and education had seen him posted to the Litt
orio’s HQ staff. It was thus the man had eventually found himself serving his country in the middle of the Egyptian desert.

  To say that Gaetano Cafarelli didn’t like the desert would be an understatement of gargantuan proportions. It would’ve been far more accurate to have described what he felt for his current environment as a consuming hatred that bordered on the pathological. Never in his life had he experienced such endless, mind-numbing expanses of nothingness with – to his unaccustomed eye at least – no break whatsoever in the futile monotony of the barren, featureless landscape.

  No trees… no rivers… no greenery or flora of any sort for the most part… certainly nothing like the lush, verdant hills of his Sicilian home. But Cafarelli was a soldier and soldiers went where they were told in the service of their country. He followed orders to the best of his abilities, did his part and when it was all over – hopefully – he’d once more be back in his beloved mountains… back with Sara, the beautiful, dark-haired young woman waiting for him at home who was his beloved fiancée.

  Captain Davids and his crew had spent almost two weeks now in training with the incredible new tanks they’d been told were known as the AC-1 Sentinel, although the Americans were apparently naming it ‘Pershing’ after a famous First World War general. And if the use of two names wasn’t complication enough, whenever he or his crew had cause to speak to the pair of officers that appeared to be in charge of the project – a female RN captain named Donelson and an RAAF air vice marshal named Thorne – both of them persisted in calling the vehicles by another name entirely: one that no one else seemed to have heard of, save for a few of the officers manning the trucks that had arrived on the LST as part of Thorne’s convoy. Neither Davids nor the rest of his crew had any idea what or who an ‘Abrams’ was, although they suspected it was someone’s name, and it seemed that the pair of officers were having a quite difficult time reminding themselves of the tanks’ correct titles, often correcting themselves mid-sentence as a result.