“I… I don’t have that information at this point in time, sir…”
“I know you don’t have it, mate,” Thorne shot back with a dry, humourless smile. “You’re in bloody Singapore: I wouldn’t expect you to have that information on hand. What you can do though is bloody-well find out. I want you to get back on the horn to Dublin and find out two things: one – where the bloody hell has ‘Pulitzer’ gotten to; and two – on whose fucking orders he was extracted from England and why was it without my knowledge?”
“Sir, it’s after midnight here at the moment: I’m not sure I can get authorisation to–!”
“I don’t give a rat’s arse what time it is there, Lieutenant Croft,” Thorne snapped angrily, cutting him off. “You get on that immediately! Any bugger tries to give you any shit, make sure they know they’ll answer directly to me! Thorne over and out…!”
He switched off the microphone without waiting for a reply and made several frustrated attempts at clipping it to his belt beside the radio before finally managing it, swearing with soft profusion all the while.
“That’s a mighty fine radio there to be talking to Singapore with, air vice marshal,” Davids observed with open curiosity as he appeared out of the darkness as he walked slowly toward the Australian. Having overheard part of the previous conversation, his interest had been sufficiently piqued for him to climb carefully down off the tank and make his way over at a slow, ambling pace.
“Bugger me, Jim…!’ Thorne exclaimed with a start, caught by surprise at the man’s unexpected approach. “You nearly took ten years off me then and that’s no mean feat in itself!” He managed a faint grin as he calmed down somewhat, although he was still fuming inwardly over the details of the radio transmission.
“…These things link into a larger repeater unit in one of the trucks that forwards the signal on to Suez and beyond,” Thorne continued in explanation, gently patting the radio at his belt. “Handier than having to find a bloody radio shack every time I need to speak to someone somewhere else…” He managed a genuine smile. “Did I interrupt an ‘intimate’ moment between you and that bloody tank?”
“Didn’t feel much like socialising,” Davids shrugged, snorting a soft laugh at Thorne’s attempted humour. “Just felt like a little time to meself and this seemed like the best place to get it…”
“…Until some loud-mouthed Aussie barged in and fucked it up…?” Thorne grinned, instantly waving off any protestation as Davids began to speak. “Just kidding you, mate – just kidding you… I’m a tad pissed off at the moment, as you may have already worked out if you heard me on the radio, and I tend to enjoy taking my frustrations out on others.” He again juggled the six-pack in one hand before removing another can from the cluster and gently tossing it across the intervening space to Davids. “Here… get this down ya…”
Thorne had insisted right from the start that the test group within which they worked should be a very informal setting and he’d immediately commenced referring to everyone involved by their first names, although it had taken longer for many lower-ranked officers and enlisted men to become accustomed to the idea of addressing a man of such high rank simply as ‘Max’.
“You should come along with us next time, sir,” Davids suggested with a smile of his own as he opened the beer and raised it in thankful acknowledgement. “A four-inch gun’s a bloody fine way to work out your frustrations!”
“She’s a beast, ain’t she?” The Australian beamed with pride, completely ignoring the vehicle’s name as he referred to it in the feminine. “Better part of two years’ worth of development finally coming to fruition. It’s nice to see it all working so perfectly.”
“I wouldn’t call her ‘perfect’,” Davids pulled a faint grimace, but the twinkle in his eye gave away the fact that he was throwing out some verbal bait. “She’s a fine vehicle all the same though!”
“If that’s not perfect by anyone’s standard, I’ll bloody eat my hat, mate!” Thorne quipped in return, recognising the subtle jibe for what it was and refusing to be baited. “I’ll admit, I’d be happier if the bloody things could carry a few more rounds in that turret bustle...” ...and maybe thermal sights, a laser range finder and fire control computer as well... he added silently, “...but with the kind of accuracy you boys were able to display this morning, that still gives you close enough to fifty-five one-shot kills: I’d like to see a Firefly crew get even close to stats that good from a hundred shells fired.”
“There’s the truth right enough, I’ll grant you!” Davids nodded sagely after a long sip of his own beer, unable to argue with what Thorne was saying. “They’re amazing contraptions, and that’s a fact! If you’d told me back in Kent that in two years I’d be commanding a sixty-ton tank with a four-inch gun, I’d have called you mad or a bloody liar and no mistake!”
“Two years ago, I’d have been none too sure of the possibility myself, mate,” Thorne gave a wry smile as he drank some more. “We bloody-well wouldn’t have these buggers either, if it wasn’t for the Yanks and they’re extremely under-utilised manufacturing capability. It’s only Lend-Lease that’s kept us hanging on to North Africa this long as it is...”
“Pity it’s not going to be enough…” Davids observed softly, the smile fading momentarily as he contemplated the reality of what lay ahead in the next few days and weeks. “Unless you’ve got a couple o’ hundred more of these hidden somewhere, we’re not gonna hold here much longer…”
Even after just a few gulps, Thorne could nevertheless already feel the beer starting to affect him. A lack of ‘practice’ drinking alcohol over the last two years combined with the heat of the day seemed to be forcing it into his system with relative speed, making him feel more relaxed and perhaps more talkative that he normally would be.
“These are the only two we’ve got anywhere right now, Jim,” he admitted with some sadness of his own, “and I think you’re dead right… it’s nowhere near enough to hold back the Axis for much longer.” He gave a soft snort of derision. “I feel sorry for Monty, I really do: there’s not a damn thing anyone could’ve done to stop us getting belted in North Africa, but it’s the latest in a long line of defeats for the British Army and he’s going to carry the can for it whether he deserves to or not.” He took another drag on his beer and shook his head sadly. “There’ll be no victory at El Alamein to earn him a knighthood this time around…”
“‘This time around’…?” Davids focussed immediately on something Thorne had said that made no sense whatsoever to him. “Don’t recall Monty ever being knighted before, nor do I believe the Palace was ever in the habit of handing them out twice…” He gave a sour grimace. “For that matter, we got our arses kicked at El Alamein, if I rightly recall...”
“Quite right on both counts, Jim,” Thorne chuckled softly. “Not exactly what I meant though, but I can see how you’d take it that way.”
“Not sure I can see any other way to take it…” Davids replied, eyebrow raised as he stared back at the Australian with an expectant expression.
“I’m not nearly drunk enough to explain that,” Thorne grinned back, then drained the remainder of his beer and tossed it casually over his shoulder. A moment later he swayed slightly and took a steadying step backward as the alcohol he’d already consumed caused his balance to waver. “…Whoa... actually it appears I am nearly drunk enough…” he continued, half talking to himself, then added: “However, I suspect you aren’t pissed enough to believe me, so we might have to do something about that. Captain Donelson was kind enough to mention there were some drinks on at the officer’s mess: you never know what you might find out if you decided to come on down for a few…!”
“You know, air vice marshal, I had no idea who the bloody hell you were that day you turned up at the front with the Yank and that bloody German,” Davids began with a shrewd expression on his face. He paused for a moment to finish his own beer before discarding it in a similar fashion and receiving a second one from Thorne.
“Didn’t much think about it after that with all hell breaking loose and our defences going to shite, but since then there have been an awful lot of stories floating around about you.”
“I’ve heard most of ‘em,” Thorne shot back immediately, suspecting he already knew where the conversation was going and grinning from ear-to-ear in mischievous excitement. “…Even started some of ‘em meself. Which ones have you heard?”
“Claims that you were psychotic… that you were some bloody double-agent…” Davids answered slowly – thoughtfully – as he cracked open the new can almost in punctuation and Thorne grinned and snorted with derision, not feeling any need to disagree with anything said so far. “…Some ridiculous rumours suggested you were from outer space…” he paused again, this time definitely for effect. “…or from the future…”
There was a long, silent and very pregnant pause as both men stared at one another, each almost daring the other to look away first. A moment later, Max Thorne began to laugh: a soft, low, rumbling chuckle that seemed to originate deep within him and shook his frame to the core, which he duly noted didn’t seem to surprise Davids at all.
“Maybe you are pissed enough… the RSM at Duntroon always reckoned you had to be a bit nuts to win a VC…” The Australian observed shrewdly as his laughter subsided. “Is even half of what they say happened at Slough true?” It was intended as an off-the-cuff question, and under the influence of alcohol he saw the danger in asking it a just a moment too late.
“You tryin’ to change subject, sir?” Davids shot back instantly, mostly managing to maintain his good-natured expression as he deflected the question, although Thorne was still sober enough to catch the warning signs and elected to back off.
“Come on, you!” Max’s face took on a cheeky, almost sly expression as he took the conversation back onto safer ground. “If you want a story outta me, then I’ll need more o’ this; and these beers won’t last long the way we’re going: let’s go hit the mess and do some real damage…”
“The rest ‘o my crew are camped just down the rise there,” Davids observed quietly, his faint nod of recognition coming after a long, silent moment spent sizing up the man before him. “They’ll have more grog there, right enough, and it’s a lot closer than the mess…”
“A man after my own heart,” Thorne grinned in return, relieved he’d seemingly negotiated that mental minefield successfully. “…maybe we will have that chat. Lead on, Macduff…” he added, using a phrase he knew full well to be a common partial misquote of Shakespeare “‘…and damned be him, first says ‘hold, enough!’!”
Axis Marshalling Area
Cairo-Suez Road
50km east of Cairo, Egypt
Despite having suffered no significant physical injuries, Lieutenant Gaetano Cafarelli nevertheless felt as if he ached all over. The doctors at the field hospital had been amazed that there hadn’t been any real damage considering the knock he’d taken to his head during the RAF air attack on Littorio’s CP early that morning. He was nursing a substantial lump on one side above his hairline, however other than being rendered temporarily unconscious there miraculously appeared to be no lingering after effects.
There wasn’t even a concussion to show for his ordeal as Cafarelli stood at the window of his officers’ hospital room and stared out at the hive of activity beyond that had become the Axis’ main marshalling yards near Cairo. The field hospital itself was a brand new structure, having been completed just weeks before, and still vaguely smelled of the fresh paint that had been splashed across its rough-hewn timber walls. He knew that he’d been lucky to have come out of the experience mostly unscathed – knew that it was by pure, random chance alone that he’d been spared the same terrible fate that had befallen many of his fellow officers and enlisted men that day.
Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for his CO, Bitossi. Also knocked unconscious during the attack, the major-general had received a fracture to the right side of his skull for his troubles along with minor burns to both legs as a result of the fire within their command vehicle. It was true that he too was fortunate to still be alive, but the fracture and accompanying concussion had left him barely conscious for the time being. No doubt he’d eventually recover his full strength in time but for the short term at least, the commanding officer of the 133rd Armoured Division ‘Littorio’ was well and truly hors de combat.
Cafarelli’s room was small and contained just two beds, one of which was his. The other was empty at that moment – something he was grateful for – and it allowed him the opportunity to rest in relative peace and quiet as he regained his strength. Although his body might well have suffered no long term damage, the same might not necessarily be true for his spirit. The lieutenant felt exhausted and totally drained and he stared out through the open window with a glazed expression that made him seem almost in a state of shock: something that was only partially untrue.
He knew he’d be sent back into combat soon enough – experienced officers would be needed desperately in the battles ahead – although he was less than thrilled by the idea of being reassigned. The 133rd Armoured had been decimated that morning by enemy land and air forces and to all intents and purposes had ceased to exist as a coherent unit. What was left would be absorbed into the ranks of sister divisions to form a core of experienced veterans who might (hopefully) pass on their wisdom and skill to newer, less seasoned recruits. In the meantime, Cafarelli was relieved that for a few days at least, he’d be able to rest and recuperate… perhaps to take some time even to write to his fiancé back home.
That was assuming, of course, that he was able to think of anything that he was capable of putting down on paper. In just the course of a few short years apart, the experiences he’d shared with his fellow soldiers and comrades-at-arms that had served to draw them all tightly together in victory and defeat were the very same experiences that made the young man feel as if some kind of invisible, impenetrable wall had been lowered between him and the past and family he’d known.
The powerful bond of comradeship that formed under fire was something that transcended any other connection he’d ever made or felt with another human being: something that almost superseded anything that had gone before it. Better or worse, thick or thin, he would stand and fight alongside the men with whom he’d served, gladly laying down his life for them and knowing they’d do the same for him in return. How could he ever explain such a depth of feeling to those who’d never experienced it for themselves? There were no words that could ever do justice to something that could between two veterans be conveyed through the pure subtlety of a single shared, knowing stare.
A train whistle blew loudly in that moment, breaking him from the trance of his own, deep thought and drawing his attention well-and-truly back to the present. He turned his head slightly and watched as a trio of large, coupled locomotives rumbled slowly to a complete halt at the nearby siding, steam hissing from their pistons as black, sulphurous clouds of acrid smoke pumped from their stacks.
Identical, green-painted 545-class models of 2-6-0 configuration (the number of leading, driving and trailing axles respectively), the machines were three of eighty units supplied to the Egyptian State Railways between 1920 and 1938. Some of the locomotive stock in existence prior to the war had been systematically destroyed or disabled by the British during their continual retreat eastward over the last two years however many had survived all the same and had been quickly pressed back into service by Axis occupation forces.
The line on which these ran was the original rail link between Cairo and Suez – two parallel sets of tracks that were of course now cut as a result of the current lines of battle. What remained had nevertheless been sufficient to serve as a railhead for the huge preparation area that had been set up in the flat, dusty desert off the Cairo-Suez Road approximately forty kilometres east of the capital. Many hectares of what had not long ago been a featureless expanse of nothing was now a growing hive of activity that included rows
of massed anti-aircraft artillery, long lines of barracks, a huge vehicle park and an airfield constructed purely to provide air cover for the yards themselves.
The area had become particularly busy over the past few months as the build-up had commenced in earnest for the coming, final push to the canal and the Red Sea. Trucks, staff cars and a variety of armoured vehicles zipped this way and that in the name of logistical support for combat troops that now numbered into the thousands. Even at night one continued to hear the constant drone of aircraft engines as radar-equipped night fighters cruised overhead, ever-vigilant.
The newly-arrived trains that night brought with them even more arms to add to the impressive force already mustered there at the marshalling yards. Long lines of wooden barracks complemented seemingly endless rows of tents as the might of the Wehrmacht and the Italian armed forces gathered in preparation for that final assault. Hundreds of tanks lay parked on the other side of the tracks, accompanied by at least twice as many trucks and assorted other armoured vehicles of other types that included armoured cars, mobile flak and self-propelled artillery and assault guns.
A few hundred metres away on the opposite side of the main rail line, 2LT Pascucci sat with the rest of his crew in the lee of their huge Semovente and stared thoughtfully up at the stars as his comrades laughed and smoked, swapping stories and passing around a bottle of red wine. They’d survived that morning’s battle, which was more than could be said for some of their fellow tankers, and that was reason enough to thank God and enjoy some quiet celebration. They were all veterans and they’d all learned quickly how to live in the moment rather than plan for a future they might never live to see.
“Another load of Pantere Tedesche coming in, signore,” his gunner observed, wine bottle in hand as he nodded toward the tracks, responding to the same train whistle Cafarelli had heard. “They’ve already brought in dozens of the bloody things as reinforcements here: how many more do our ‘friends’ think they need?”
Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2) Page 34
