Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2)

by Charles S. Jackson

  The F-3C possessed an unrefuelled range of over 1,000km and had no requirement to fly anywhere near such a distance that morning. They carried no extra fuel for their current mission and just a single plain, streamlined, ovoid canister instead hung from each of the nine aircraft’s four under-wing pylons. Weighing almost 230kg apiece, there were no fins attached to help orient the weapons once they dropped from the aircraft – the intention was for them to spin and tumble as they fell, an action that would assist the spread of destruction upon impact.

  Precision accuracy was no real requirement as there was no conventional high explosive used –the plain, ovoid containers instead held a volatile, jellied mixture of gasoline and naphthalene flakes that had come into common usage by both sides over the last two years and was known to Axis and Allies alike simply as napalm.

  “Maintenance problems…?” Bitossi almost screamed in frustration as his radio operator cringed visibly, the reaction a result of the message the man had just passed on from headquarters in Cairo. “How can the entire fucking air force be having simultaneous ‘maintenance problems’…?” The battle wasn’t going well and what was left of his force had only been saved further destruction by the recommencement of their artillery barrage moments before. “No Luftwaffe or our own bloody RAI…! No attack aircraft… no gunships... not even any fighters on combat air patrol…!” There was accusation and venom in his words as he spat them angrily at the NCO. “You think this is all a coincidence, sergeant, because I fucking do not! Those cowards in Cairo have sent us into battle unsupported like lambs to the slaughter, and now my men are dying pointlessly out here in this fucking desert while they sit down for their hotel breakfasts!”

  He paused for a moment, staring out toward the veil of smoke rising across the western horizon as he fought within himself over acceptance that there was now only one decision to be made regarding the situation they’d been forced into. With a final snarl of incoherent frustration, he glared back down at the communications NCO and issued his next orders:

  “Get them out of there… get everyone out of there…! Instruct our artillery to provide a full smoke barrage to mask their withdrawal: I only hope to God there are still some of those poor bastards left to cover…!”

  “Signore, guardi là…!” Cafarelli cried out in warning, outstretched arm pointing toward the south as a look of sudden shock and horror spread across his face.

  Anything further Bitossi might’ve said died suddenly on his lips as he too turned his head in that direction and caught sight of what the lieutenant had seen. At a distance of several thousand metres, the vehicles of the 554th Gruppo di Artiglieria a Propulsione Autonoma (Self-Propelled Artillery Group) were little better than tiny black spots spread about distant, rocky desert. What had clearly become visible at that moment however were numerous long, streaming walls of fire that seemed to simultaneously envelop at least half the battery. As the resulting clouds of rolling black smoke rose into the air, the microscopic specks of aircraft also became visible, climbing and circling into the sky above the maelstrom. One could be seen diving back toward the ground, the tiny sparkles of tracer quite clear as it fired on another target and something unidentified exploded into flames.

  “Dio ci salva,” Bitossi breathed softly, left momentarily breathless as a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach was suddenly magnified exponentially. “Air support…!” He exclaimed a second later, rousing himself quickly from a moment of despondency and turning his attention back to the situation at hand. “Tell HQ we’re under aerial attack and we need fighter cover immediately…! They have constant combat patrols over Cairo – that’s only a five minute flight at full throttle! We need cover now: make it clear to whatever cretino you have on the other end of that radio that I’ll personally shoot them myself if we don’t have fighters over our position within six minutes!”

  “We’re sitting ducks here, signore!” Cafarelli exclaimed a moment later as the radio operator tried to raise someone back at HQ. “If we can see them, they can certainly see us!” He directed his next words toward the driver, down inside the Autoblinda’s forward hull. “Get us out of here! Get moving now…!”

  Against the dark backdrop of the mountain ranges to the south, the trio of approaching enemy fighter-bombers was almost impossible to see from head on until they were far too close for safety. The aircraft were already upon them, their wing cannon hammering away with deadly precision even as the twin 23mm cannon of a mobile flak vehicle nearby opened up, sending streams of tracer into the sky. The desert rocks and sand around them seemed to churn high into the air as dozens of 20mm shells smashed into the ground, battering the AB41 with fragments and debris. Several slammed into the forward hull on the right side, easily punching through the thin steel armour and destroying everything in their path, driver and engine itself included.

  One F-3C was blasted from the sky by anti-aircraft fire but the flak vehicle and another nearby armoured car were torn apart in return, each vehicle exploding instantly and sending rolling clouds of flame and smoke high into the sky above. The downed fighter smashed itself to pieces a few hundred metres away against the surface of the stony desert a few seconds later as the remaining pair of Sea Furies from 803Sqn immediately turned away to the west, following the rest of their flight and heading for home.

  Bitossi’s command car began to fill quickly with smoke as a fire broke out inside the hull, spread slowly by a layer of leaking diesel fuel that had been sprayed across most of the forward interior by the impact of the cannon shells on its engine bay. Dazed but still half out of his hatch at the rear, Cafarelli was able to climb out of the vehicle with relative ease, and as he rose to his feet he could hear the screams rising from within as their radio operator writhed in agony, most of his body and uniform already ablaze.

  The general – knocked unconscious during the strafing run – also lay with half his body outside the turret hatch and Cafarelli could see that flames were also licking around his legs and feet as he released a dazed, painful moan. Grasping Bitossi beneath the arms and lifting him as well as he could, the lieutenant dragged him forcibly from the hatch and allowed him to drop to the ground below before turning back to help the rest of his comrades.

  As he moved to reach down into the hull once more he was greeted by a wall of fire that roared up toward him and singed off his eyebrows, leaving him temporarily blinded. Momentarily disoriented and unable to see, he staggered atop the AB41 and lost his footing, cracking his head heavily against the rear of the rear of the turret before he too fell onto the ground below in an unconscious heap, not far from the motionless body of his commander.

  Survivors from one of the undamaged vehicles nearby ran over immediately to render assistance, dragging both away to safety as screams continued to rise from within the burning Autoblinda. Those cries for help were silenced a few seconds later as the remaining fuel and ammunition within the armoured car ‘brewed up’, releasing a tower of flame from the open hatches that burned furiously for some time and reached several metres into the air.

  Junction Hotel, Tocumwal

  New South Wales, Australia

  It would be hard work running the hotel alone on a Saturday evening but Eliza was willing to put up with it all the same in the interest of furthering her daughter’s studies. With Briony not being welcome at the local school, her education was solely reliant on the efforts of the curate they knew of as James Brandis and his kindly and extremely capable housekeeper, septuagenarian widow Mrs Edwina Tuttle. It was difficult enough to fit the girl’s lessons in around the daily running of church business as it was – Brandis was often away to Melbourne, Sydney or elsewhere on ‘church business’ – and weekend lessons were often a necessity as a result. Fortunately, Briony herself loved spending time with her ‘Uncle James’ so much that there was never any problem in getting her to attend.

  That of course meant that Briony wasn’t available to help out as much as her mother would’ve liked however and with Maude o
ut of town for a few days visiting her parents, that left Eliza to take care of everything on her own that evening.

  “You listen to Father James now and be in bed before nine,” she warned kindly as they stood in the doorway, hugging her daughter and kissing her lightly on the forehead – something that was no mean feat in itself as Briony was already several centimetres taller.

  Standing out on the street waiting, Brandis winced visibly as he always did at the use of the title ‘Father’ before his name. Although the Sydney Catholic Archdiocese ‘officially’ listed him as a curate at the local parish assisting Father O’Donnell, in reality he’d never been officially ordained, as he himself had often tried to explain. As always it was to no avail and as much out of respect for his many years of help and in recognition of his authority, Eliza had continued to insist on referring to him as ‘Father’ at all times.

  Do you think she’d still respect you if she knew you’re not going to lift a finger? The words flared and died in his mind, the tone more of despair than accusation.

  “Don’t worry, Liz,” he forced a smile and did his best to ignore the silent condemnation; “I’ll make sure she gets plenty of rest, of course. Are you sure you don’t need some help around here tonight?”

  “I’ll be right, don’t you worry,” she grinned back. “Bit ‘o hard work never hurt anyone.” She gave a dismissive shrug that hid a good deal of apprehension beneath. “Mostly gonna be them from the base in tonight anyway, bein’ a ‘leave’ night,” Eliza added with a grimace, specifically meaning Americans. “They’re a rowdy bloody lot – ‘scuse the language, Father – and its best I look after ‘em meself, I reckon.” Still a little shaken by the encounter the day before with Leonski, she had no great desire to deal with American servicemen at all that night alone or otherwise but for all that, she’d prefer working solo to having Briony exposed to anything unsavoury.

  “Come on then, young lady,” Brandis said cheerfully, turning toward his parked Ford V8 and thereby hiding the tension building within his mind. “Mrs Tuttle’s got some rabbits stewing and she won’t be happy if we’re late for dinner.”

  “You two have fun,” Eliza told her daughter softly as Briony leaned in to kiss her mother on the cheek by way of farewell.

  She watched the car drive off south along Bridge Street, not moving from her position in the doorway until the sedan had turned left on Browne and disappeared completely. Although she’d said nothing to her daughter, Eliza Morris still felt a great deal of unease regarding what had happened the preceding day, and the image of the American standing over her, wild-eyed and crazy, had filled her with a true sense of dread. It was only Brandis’ appearance that had saved her and Briony from harm that day – of that she was certain – and it made her feel marginally better to know that her daughter was spending time with someone she trusted completely.

  Considering her own childhood experiences it was a rare thing for Eliza to trust any man – particularly with regard to care of Briony – and she was also well aware that wearing the cloth of the church – Catholic or otherwise – was also no great guarantee in itself of goodness. Evil came in all forms, Eliza was certain of that, and some of those could wear a priest’s collar just as readily as they might a prisoner’s chains.

  Brandis was different though, and Eliza knew he could be trusted utterly and completely. Ask her exactly how she knew that and she could give no answer save for the man’s unwavering decency in all the years she’d known him, and in all honesty she knew precious little about the man for all that. He never spoke of his own past nor gave any true answer regarding why a man such as himself chose to spend much time in such a simple, regional parish such as Tocumwal, yet somehow all that was required was to stare into the intensity of the man’s gaze to see the reality of the man within.

  She’d heard him talking to himself at times over the years and sometimes – when he thought he couldn’t be overheard – those ‘discussions’ had sounded quite wild and aggressive. Eliza could tell he was troubled by things of which he never spoke and she suspected he might be a perfect example of something he himself had once told her, many years ago: that genius and insanity were often two sides of the same coin. Yet whatever Brandis might be hiding from – or hiding from the world – he was a good man inside and that was all Eliza cared about.

  She counted herself lucky that Maude had at least had the good sense to make herself scarce for a few days on the pretence of visiting her parents. It made Eliza’s job that much harder but she’d rather the extra work than the tension the two of them working together would’ve undoubtedly produced. Better they both had time and a little distance to calm down and confront the changed situation with cool heads. With a quick glance up at the darkening, overcast sky she released a long sigh of resignation and stepped back inside the hotel, steeling herself for the hard work of the night ahead.

  With Father O’Donnell away in Sydney on parish business, Brandis sat down to dinner that night in the cottage behind the church with just Briony and Mrs Tuttle for company. He found he had no appetite despite the stew being exceptional, and was glad of the fact that his young student was far too excited about her reading and her lessons to realise.

  Mrs Tuttle noticed of course – very little that occurred in or around the church grounds escaped that canny old woman’s attention – but she’d known the man in question for many years now and therefore knew better than to make any remark. Short and stocky, with hair that had turned completely silver over bright eyes and a broad smile that still held some of its own teeth, Tuttle had lost her husband to the Boer War and her two sons on the beach at Anzac Cove fifteen years later. An extremely capable woman, she’d worked for successive parish priests there at St Peter’s for almost forty years.

  She was also smart enough to know when to give Phillip Brandis a wide berth and that night was one of those times. He’d been talking to himself again earlier that day – usually a sure sign that something significant was bothering him – and he’d seemed very on edge when speaking to her earlier about the study session that evening with Briony – something he usually looked forward to.

  Mrs Tuttle took it all in her stride and also took it as her cue to keep out of the way, collecting the plates as soon as they were emptied of food and carrying them out to the kitchen. The sounds of cleaning up that followed might almost have seemed a little too ‘obvious’ to not have been intentional, as if making it clear that others were minding their own business.

  Alone in the cottage’s small sitting room a few moments later, Briony and Brandis sat facing each other in comfortable matching armchairs by a small fire, the only light in the room that of a tall, standing floor lamp behind the man’s left shoulder. The young girl listened with silent excitement, enthralled as he read from the thick, leather-bound book he held in his lap, staring down at it through circular spectacles with thin, wire frames. They took turns at reading, and that night was his turn although he put up none of the usual mock bluff and bluster that usually accompanied his final surrender over whose turn it actually was. Briony was too pleased over her ‘win’ to even think that something might be wrong.

  Saturday evening readings had become something of a regular event for the two save for the infrequent occasions that Brandis was away on business, and as was usual of late, the subject matter continued the story of Victor Hugo’s classic novel of historical fiction, Les Misérables. At that point, he was reading aloud from Chapter VI, Book 14th of Volume IV – Saint Denis, that section covering the death of Eponine at the barricades with Marius by her side. He himself knew the work well and as he read on, Brandis’ voice took on an almost neutral accent that although soft-spoken and slow nevertheless added life and gravitas to words written almost a century before.

  Tears welled in Briony’s eyes as he finished the chapter, Eponine’s final confession of her love for Marius filling her with emotion.

  “It’s not fair…!” She sniffed softly, rubbing self-consciously at her eyes
as Brandis took a clean, white handkerchief from a pocket within his robes and handed it across to her. “She loved Marius! She did everything she could to help him even though she knew he wanted Cosette instead!” There was a faint undertone of righteous indignance in her tone as she spoke those words that Brandis noted clearly. “Just because Cosette was fair and wore pretty clothes…! Eponine was poor and dressed in rags and he didn’t even look at her twice!”

  “You think Marius only loved Cosette because of her fair skin and her rich upbringing?” Brandis asked thoughtfully, watching her over the rims of his glasses and fighting to keep the hint of a sad, knowing smile from his lips.

  “I think it made a difference, yes,” she answered with certainty, and this time Brandis allowed himself a smile, proud of the levels of confidence and clarity of mind Briony often displayed for her relatively young years. “I can see you’re laughing at me, Uncle James,” she added, only a little upset at the realisation. “I’m not stupid.”

  “Stupid is something you are most definitely not, young lady,” he replied in a gentle voice, “and I’m most certainly not laughing at you. I think Hugo was trying to make a point in this, though – one of the many he makes throughout this great work,” he countered slowly, allowing her time to think about what he was saying. “What do you think of how Eponine and Azelma treated Cosette when they were children?”

  “I’d forgotten that,” she admitted instantly, her willingness to honestly accept responsibility for errors another of her traits of which he was particularly impressed.

  “I doubt you’ve ever heard of the word ‘Karma’…” he added softly, removing his glasses completely and rubbing at his eyes as she shook her head quickly, confirming his assumption. “It’s an Eastern concept, but in our culture you could liken it perhaps to something along the lines of Galatians, Chapter Six, Verse Seven…” He paused for a moment, allowing Briony time to consider what he’d said as he searched his own memories for the appropriate quote: “It goes something like: ‘Be not deceived. God shall not be mocked, for however a man sows, so shall he reap…’.” He allowed himself a dry smile. “I’ve also heard it paraphrased less formally as ‘What goes around comes around.’...”