Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2)

by Charles S. Jackson

  A sergeant came into view a moment later, hunched over but making good speed all the same as he rounded the corner at the far end of the trench and headed toward them. As he approached, Thorne realised it was the same NCO from Tocumwal he’d spoken to the night before.

  “There you are, sir... the CO sent me out to find you!” Sergeant Morris exclaimed as he drew closer. “Had one drop close, did ya?” He added, correctly deducing the reason for Thorne’s breathing difficulties with the man before him capable of not much more than a nodded response. “You wanna watch that, sir... the blast can bugger yer lungs right up if y’re not careful. Next time you hear one coming down close, you wanna cover your ears and keep your mouth open: that should help. Take short, shallow breaths if you can – cop another close one with a lungful of air and you’ll drown in yer own blood, sir...” the cheerfulness dimmed from his face and tone momentarily as he recalled past unpleasantness “...and that ain’t pretty, believe you me!”

  “I’ll take that under advisement...” Thorne croaked, shaking his head slowly as his lungs finally decided to cooperate. The mental images conjured up by the sergeant’s words were in no way reassuring.

  “‘Course, if one o’ the bastards comes down right on top of ya then you’re pretty much fucked anyway... pardon my French, sir...”

  “Have you seen Captain Donelson or any of the others in my group, sergeant?” Thorne asked more clearly after several deep, steadying breaths.

  “Sorry, sir – no sign of ‘em – but I was on duty in the command bunker before this lot came down so that don’t mean much. Colonel Anderson sent me out here to find you ‘cause he wanted your opinion on somethin’...”

  “He wants my opinion...?” Thorne was surprised by that. “I thought I was just about persona non grata at the moment...”

  “Dunno about any ‘personal nun’s garters’, sir,” Morris shrugged in return, the use of Latin sliding straight past him as Thorne grinned faintly at the response, “but they wanna see you all the same. They’re having trouble getting hold of GHQ at the moment, and that means you’re the closest thing we’ve got handy to a staff officer until that changes.”

  Another shell screamed overhead at that moment, causing everyone around to pause, cover their ears and open their mouths in preparation, Thorne quickly doing the same as he recalled Morris’ recent warning. The earth shook and their ears were assaulted by the roar as it detonated a few dozen metres east, the overpressure again leaving him feeling as if he’d been kicked although this time, admittedly, to a far lesser extent that before. It seemed the man’s advice indeed held some merit.

  “Come on, sergeant,” Thorne exclaimed, slapping a hand on the man’s shoulder the moment earth and debris had ceased raining down upon their heads. “Best you lead the way, eh...?”

  “Righto, sir...!” Morris agreed with a nod, happy to be heading back toward the relative safety of the command bunker.

  It took a good twenty minutes of picking their way through the trench network, occasionally forced to bolt across short patches of open ground at a dead run where two trench systems failed to completely connect. Here and there they were also forced to negotiate their way around sections where direct hits – or strikes close enough to make no odds – had devastated part of the earthworks.

  Sometimes there were casualties – sometimes there weren’t – and there were relatively few for all that, but wherever someone had been hit there were also unforgettable, agonised screams of pain and as the pair passed through, Throne looked on in horror as medics tried to do what they could. In some of those cases, he didn’t need to be a doctor to know that all the effort in the world wasn’t going to be enough.

  “Welcome to the party, air vice marshal,” the CO observed drily as he looked up from a small map table barely long enough to note the new arrival. “Seems Jerry has seen fit to ruin any hope of a sleep in this morning… reports we’re getting from the other units in the area suggest it might actually be the real thing this time… the rest of the Ninth Division to our right flank has advised they’re copping a hammering as well, and by all accounts the bods beyond them are too. No Luftwaffe yet, thank God, but that’ll change soon enough once the bloody sun comes up. That ‘Ivan’ of yours might well get in on the show before this day’s out.”

  “I hadn’t planned on hanging about for the Krauts’ final bloody push,” Thorne remarked sourly, his own displeasure quite evident in his expression, “but it appears perhaps that decision’s now out of my hands. That’s not to say we won’t give as we get... field testing has been bloody useful, but I’d really prefer not to hand those two tanks over to the bloody Germans any time soon.” He noted the displeasure that flooded across Anderson’s face at that remark. “There’s no way I’m leaving your boys in the lurch, colonel...” he added hurriedly, pouring water on that little fire before it grew into anything larger “...just making an observation is all.”

  “We’ll cross that particular bridge when we come to it, air vice marshal,” Anderson countered. “Orders for your evacuation still stand and pending a retraction from Suez, the decision may be out if my hands, too.” A shell landed particularly close at that point, causing everyone inside to flinch as the bunker rattled and dust rained down in fine clouds. “That one was a bit close for comfort,” the CO observed as an afterthought. “Can’t say I care for it myself, but at least the silly buggers are dropping them long on our heads rather than on the front lines. Barrage seems to be walking east if anything.”

  “Unusual for the Krauts to drop anything in the wrong place,” Thorne mused softly, inexplicably ill-at-ease as a tingling sensation lifted the hairs at the back of his neck. “Why shell the enemy rear and leave the defenders untouched? What is the word from HQ...?”

  “We’ve not been able to raise Suez as yet,” Anderson replied with a grimace, showing more concern over that than he’d have liked. “We’ve some reports from the other front line units nearby over the tactical channels, but nothing from HQ itself and we’re having trouble even getting those… the buggers are jamming our receivers something fierce and we’re lucky at times to pick up one word in three.” He gave an expression of vague futility. “We’re changing frequencies left, right and centre every time to buy ourselves a few minutes but we have to switch channels again as soon as the bastards ‘find’ us.”

  “Signal from Admiral Somerville on Formidable, sir...!” Wickenby called out suddenly, rising from a small bench on the opposite side of the map table, upon which a large radio transceiver unit was set up while still holding his headset to one ear. “There’s been an uprising at Suez...” He paused as he waited for further information, not wanting to waste a moment in the short period of grace they might have before the enemy detected them again and their transmissions one more turned to static. “Headquarters has been hit... so have the main garrison there and the docks...”

  “Jesus Christ...!” Thorne breathed softly, a sudden sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  “...No contact with General Montgomery or any of his staff at present... they think he might be dead: the officers’ quarters was hit by several rocket-propelled grenades and collapsed...”

  “That would leave the Admiral in charge for the time being then,” Anderson growled, forcing aside his own feelings of shock and dismay over the news before turning back toward Wickenby. “What’s the situation along the lines, man? Do they have contact with the other local commanders?” There was an incredibly tense moment or two of silence as Wickenby repeated the questions into his microphone and waited patiently for a response.

  “Heavy jamming right across the spectrum as we feared, sir,” he advised eventually, almost breathless with his own tense excitement. “Even so, they’ve managed to pick up reports of heavy infantry assaults north of Ismailia and the defenders there are also coming under fire from the flanks... enemy units have made a break through already on the eastern side of the canal and are shelling the city from two sides now.”


  “If they’ve broken through there, they’ll not waste much time,” Thorne observed darkly. “Our defences are weaker east of the canal: on that side they’ll have some chance of a clear run right down to Suez if they can push a strong enough force through.” He directed his next question to Wickenby. “Find out if the uprisings are restricted to Suez, lieutenant... ask if there’s been any evidence of anything more widespread...” As the young man repeated those questions to his counterpart at the other end of the radio link, Thorne added: “Be good to know if this is happening everywhere or if it’s only a localized ‘hit’ on our HQ staff... if we do need to leg it at some stage, it would be handy to know what areas are safe.”

  “Mostly confined to Suez at the moment sir,” Wickenby reported a moment later, “but these rebels have also sunk a number of ships at their moorings... the port has been put completely out of commission...”

  “Fuck...!” Thorne snarled in frustration, not happy with suddenly having been presented with the problem of evacuating two sixty-tonne tanks without the use of a working port.

  “Nothing else to report regarding any rebel activity outside of the city at this stage, sir, although they have lost contact with a ferry checkpoint north of Suez and with an OP guarding one of the passes through the Central Sinai... there’s been no other activity that far west and command is writing that one off as mechanical issues at this point sir, but Chief Petty Officer Cameron doesn’t believe it, sir, and neither do I, quite frankly... seems too much of a coincidence for mine, considering what’s going on elsewhere...”

  “Which OP…?” Thorne snapped sharply, his tendency to think outside the box going into overdrive as he moved around to stand on the same side of the map table.

  “Mitla Pass, sir,” Wickenby replied quickly, “about twenty miles east of…”

  “I know where it is, mate,” Thorne returned with a dismissive wave of his hand before jabbing a finger straight down at the correct point on a large map of Egypt. “…Sharon took the heights there in ‘Fifty-Six and got his arse kicked for it by the Israeli High Command.”

  “I don’t know anything about any ‘Sharon’, sir,” Wickenby replied quickly, but that pass is very close to Suez on the eastern side…”

  “Not a girl called ‘Sharon’ for Christ’s Sake,” Thorne shot back in exasperation, half talking to himself and not considering that the events of which he was speaking were fourteen years ahead in a lost future and involved a man known to none of them. “Ariel Sharon…? Goes on to be bloody prime minister of…?” His voice trailed off as he finally realised that what he was saying was incomprehensible to everyone else present, and that none of them would ever have heard of Israel either, save possibly for the nation of biblical times. “…Just show me the location of the bloody ferry landing or whatever it bloody well is…” he growled eventually, deciding to quit while he was behind and sourly muttering something under his breath about ‘personal nun’s garters’ that didn’t do a great deal to further champion his credibility with those around him.

  “Over here, sir,” Wickenby ventured, leaning forward and pointing out a section of canal north of Suez while everyone in the bunker stared at Thorne with an expression that was a mixture of bemused bewilderment and vague concern – something he’d become rather unfortunately accustomed to over the preceding two years.

  1FSK encountered their first major enemy units five or six kilometres west of the canal, moving across the rocky desert as quickly as was possible without attracting undue attention. The first hints of sunlight were sparkling above the now-distant mountain ranges of the Sinai as they roared on, the Thor combat vehicles assuming a wide, elongated ‘V’ formation as the support units and APCs followed close behind within their protection. Dust rose from their large, balloon-like tyres in thin, wispy trails that were quickly dissipated in a building southerly breeze.

  A minor RAF airfield at Shallufa lay close by to their right, and they were almost skirting its southern perimeter; another reason to remain undetected as long as possible. Lighting from buildings and moving vehicles was faintly visible in the distance in that direction, and neither Witzig nor any of his men had any doubts that RAF fighters would within minutes be lifting off to join the fray in support of their beleaguered colleagues on the ground at Ismailia and numerous other points along the front lines to the north and west.

  Already, the faint flashes of distant artillery barrages were clearly visible across the horizon to the north and west, directions in which there was still mostly darkness. The rumble could also be felt through the ground, although not by those riding in small reconnaissance vehicles at speed across an uneven desert landscape. The main assaults had commenced. Very soon it would also be light enough for the Luftwaffe to also take to the skies and when that happened, Witzig expected the Allied defenders would be taught an abject lesson in the use of air power they’d not soon forget.

  It was as the force passed beyond the western boundary of the airfield that 1FSK’s lead elements crested a long, sweeping rise and came almost face-to-face with a company of mechanised infantry from the 1st Battalion of the King’s Royal Rifles, travelling in a mixture of American-made M101A armoured personnel carriers and older M3 half-tracks, escorted by several Daimler armoured cars of the 11th Hussars. Part of the 7th Armoured Division’s order of battle, they’d been detached from the front lines and ordered back to Suez to deploy against reports of uprisings there overnight.

  Both groups were caught by surprise, but what small advantage there was lay with 1FSK. They were already moving directly toward their enemy, their guns facing forward, while the British units were suddenly presented with the sight of a quite powerful opposing force heading directly into their left flank. The Daimler armoured cars at the head and tail of the convoy were armed with quick-firing 2-pounder guns which could make mincemeat out of a Thor’s relatively thin armour, and even the .50-caliber Browning machine guns mounted in the M101’s turrets and above the forward cab of each half-track could penetrate the P-21’s hide at closer ranges.

  They were never given a chance, however. Witzig’s unit was well-trained and ready to react to any surprise. Even as the lead elements of the British force were calling a warning, the turrets of the Thor reconnaissance vehicles were turning in their direction. Blinding muzzle flash accompanied the roar of their 23mm cannon as at least half-a-dozen P-21s raked the British column with a torrent of armour-piercing and high-explosive shells.

  Two Daimlers, two M101s and three half-tracks exploded and burst into flames instantly, their thinly-armoured hides nowhere near enough protection against high-velocity cannon fire. The screams of the injured and dying rose amid the roar of gunfire as tracer continued to stitch its way toward the rear of the convoy, the myriad of sparkling detonations tearing away pieces of armour and human flesh alike and spraying them about the desert as the troop ground quickly and suddenly to a halt under the onslaught.

  There was a single, far louder boom from the rear of the British line as one of the Daimlers returned fire, a pointed slug of solid shot from its 2-pounder gun punching a 40mm hole straight through the hull side of one of the nearer Thors as easily as pushing a hot needle through butter. The round itself carried no high explosive, instead completely relying on kinetic energy for effect, but the devastating force of its penetration tore through the vehicle’s store of reloads for its 88mm recoilless rifle and the subsequent blast it set off was sufficient to blow every hatch wide open, flame and sparks streaming high into the air. None of the three-man crew got out.

  A second shot struck one of the Valkyrie APCs in 1FSK’s rear, again punching its way easily through the thin side armour but this time passed straight through the vehicle – miraculously – touching not another single thing on its way through as it smashed its way out on the other side of the hull and whined off into the desert beyond. The gallant crew weren’t permitted a third shot as no less than three Thors – Witzig’s command car included – quickly targeted the Daimler an
d blew it to pieces with automatic cannon fire.

  The firefight was over in mere moments, the unprepared Allied column devastated under such concentrated fire. Every single British vehicle had been destroyed, many burning furiously and pouring thick clouds of black, oily smoke into the sky. 1FSK by comparison had lost just one Thor recon vehicle and suffered minor damage to one Valkyrie, although fire from rifles and squad machine guns splattered uselessly against their hulls and turrets. Several of the more enterprising British survivors thought to direct their fire against the tyres of the passing enemy vehicles, although they too were left disappointed as this seemed to have no success in slowing them down.

  ‘Run-flat’ tyre technology had been introduced by Michelin in the mid-Thirties, the idea being that an inner ring of foam fitted as a liner around a vehicle’s wheels within the conventional rubber tyre itself would allow that vehicle to continue on almost completely unimpeded, should a blowout or puncture occur. The Wehrmacht had been quick to make use of the technology and improve on it significantly for use in its wheeled armoured vehicles, and those Thors and Valkyries that did take hits to their tyres were therefore able to carry on regardless with only a moderate reduction to their top speed.

  1FSK swept on past, the column threading its way around and in some cases between the shattered British vehicles with well-trained precision driving as their gunners suppressed any enemy fire with their coaxial turret machine guns. Schreiner’s vehicle was one of those that happened to pass between the shattered APCs and with no thought for his own safety, the Hauptsturmführer proceeded to throw his hatch back and rise from within, awkwardly dragging with him a short-barrelled G1A3 carbine. Leaning out over the side, he began firing short, controlled bursts this way and that as he sought targets of opportunity amid British infantrymen desperately trying to seek cover behind burning wrecks.