“Still two against one though, kamerad,” he observed softly under his breath as the jet finally came around onto an intercept course and levelled out, instantly accelerating again as he forced his throttles into WEP (war emergency power). He was probably close to a thousand metres away at that point, but the twin-barrelled 23mm cannon beneath his nose were nominally accurate enough to hit targets at that range in experienced hands, and the hands of Hans-Joachim Marseille were most certainly experienced.
“Prepare to break on my mark, bearing three-six-zero,” he directed as Pöttgen’s fighter continued to bank tightly around in a clockwise direction, the Sea Fury still on its tail. “Break on… three… two… one… now!”
His wingman needed no further urging – he trusted Marseille’s judgment more than he trusted that of his own father. At that word of command, as the J-16A’s nose turned through a north-westerly direction, he wrenched the stick sideways and slewed the aircraft back to port, jamming his throttles hard forward as he came on to an almost perfect heading of due north.
McTavish hadn’t been expecting his prey to flee – any such attempt would’ve been far too dangerous – and his reaction was a little slow as a result. At first he overcompensated, expecting the jet to reverse its direction into another turn, this one counter-clockwise, and initially ended up turning his own aircraft too far back toward the west before realising his mistake.
That lapse in reaction gave Pöttgen a few vital seconds’ respite, opening up the distance between the two aircraft as Marseille screamed in from the east at high speed. As a younger pilot, the man now known as the Star of Africa had displayed a dangerous tendency to go in too hard in pursuit of an opponent, something that had on occasion resulted in him overshooting his target and in turn being shot down himself. He had so far survived four such instances, but his commanding officer of the time had put a stop to it and ordered Marseille to ‘train himself’ out of the habit.
In response, the pilot had developed several quite different sets of air combat tactics, some of which included a great deal of practice in high-deflection shooting: firing at targets passing at high speed at angles close to perpendicular, where a great deal of ‘leading’ was required. It was a practice that was difficult to master, but Marseille had trained himself to be a master at it and he put that training to good use now, mindful of how quickly his cannon chewed through ammunition.
Based on a design developed by German engineer Karl Gast during the First World War, the pair of twin-barrelled 23mm LMK59 cannon mounted beneath the nose of the J-16A fighter comprised two barrels firing from the same mechanism, the recoil force of each used to cycle the action of the other in turn. While not quite as fast-firing as the Gatling-type weapons coming into service with Allied forces, they nevertheless still possessed a rate of fire three or four times that of the cannon they replaced.
That also meant the 500 rounds carried would not last long with continuous fire, and jet pilots learned quickly that a short, sharp burst was usually more than enough to fill the air around a target with shells. On instinct alone, Marseille placed his gun sights well ahead of the speeding Sea Fury, his own experience and gut feeling telling him exactly where his target and fire from his cannon were likely to intersect. After a pause of just a split-second, pure reflex told him the right time to fire and he pressed down his gun triggers, sending a short but lethal burst of tracer streaking across the sky toward his enemy.
Lieutenant-Commander Allen McTavish never saw or – more importantly – felt what hit him. More than a dozen 23mm cannon shells slammed into the starboard side of his aircraft, stitching a devastating pattern of explosions along the fuselage from nose almost to tail. Several punched through his canopy glass, killing him instantly as the Sea Fury broke up in flight in a cloud of smoke and flame and sprayed itself across the stony landscape below.
Marseille almost followed his prey into oblivion just a few seconds later as unexpected streaks of enemy tracer fire sizzled past his own nose at far closer range than anyone would consider comfortable. Already at full throttle, he resisted the urge to make the same instinctive mistake his wingman had just made in engaging in a tight-turning battle, and instead banked the Schwalbe back around to the north-east in fast, wide turn that nevertheless allowed him to slowly increase his airspeed.
Sub-Lieutenant Evan Jones, having bought himself some breathing space while the jets had turned back toward McTavish, had also brought his F-3C back around to rejoin the battle, hoping to give his own CO some assistance. He knew well enough the decision was placing his life in jeopardy but he also recognised there was a possibility of it almost being something resembling a fair fight if he could draw the enemy into the twists and turns of a dogfight where his aircraft could hold its own.
As he’d watched McTavish’s plane disintegrate he’d clenched his teeth and cursed himself for being too late to save his friend and mentor. Nevertheless, he thought he might have some chance of at least making the enemy pilot pay dearly for his actions. He opened fire a little earlier than he’d have liked, but even then the J-16A was already beginning to pull away from him and Jones was afraid he’d not get another chance.
As Marseille banked around to starboard, Jones was easily able to turn his Sea Fury inside the manoeuver, closing the distance somewhat despite his lower airspeed. If his luck continued to hold, there was a reasonable chance he’d be in a good position to fire as both aircraft came out of the apex of their respective turns.
“This could be a good time to return the favour, Rainer,” Marseille observed, just a little concern showing in his voice as he snapped his vision back and forth between the sky ahead and the fighter-bomber closing on his tail. “I could be in trouble if this fellow’s good enough…”
“On my way, Mein Herr…!” Pöttgen assured, some distance away to the north now after evading his own pursuer but turning back to render assistance.
“Don’t concern yourself, Meine Lieben…” a third voice chimed in rather unexpectedly over their intercom channel. “Der kavallerie ist angekommen…!”
Jones’ Sea Fury exploded in a bright ball of flame seconds later as a second pair of Schwalbe jets thundered past from the west, the lead aircraft’s nose cannon blazing. Geschwaderkommodore markings adorned its fuselage sides ahead of the Balkankreuz national insignia, but Marseille or Pöttgen already recognised that voice as belonging to Oberstleutnant Eduard Neumann, the commander of JG27.
“Nice shooting, Mein Herr,” Marseille conceded grudgingly as his J-16A levelled out of the turn, not at all happy that his CO had been forced to save his hide: it was something he was unlikely to be allowed to live down any time soon. “Just a spot of bother is all…”
“Trying to get yourself shot down for a fifth time, Hans-Joachim?” Neumann enquired the humour clear in his voice as he and his wingman continued on their way in tight formation, climbing away to the north-east. “Do try to be careful out there, won’t you… I’d hate to lose that lovely fighter of yours…!”
“Your concern is touching, Mein Herr…I shall do my best not to leave you all heartbroken…”
The banter was generally light-hearted, even if Marseille were speaking through clenched teeth some of the time, but there was also the competitive edge one might expect between professional fighter pilots. Humility aside, there were many in Marseille’s unit who felt jealous of the man’s amazing kill tally, and any chance to take the Star of Africa down a peg or two – even in a good-natured way – was an opportunity to be leaped at and grasped with both hands.
“Come on, Rainer,” Marseille growled sourly, swinging back toward their designated patrol area. “Let’s get back to work, shall we…?” The pair of jets formed up and turned south, climbing back to a respectable altitude as they returned to their assigned mission.
It was a few moments before the officers at the CP realised that the shelling had in fact ceased, rather than it just being a momentary lull in the bombardment. No time was lost however the mom
ent that realisation finally sunk in.
“Sentinels up...!” Thorne howled orders into his belt radio, bursting out of the command bunker and up into the open as he looked to the west through the pall of smoke and dust all around that the barrage had left in its wake. He’d spent the intervening minutes collecting his pack and remaining personal belonging, which included a wooden-stocked carbine fitted with a short barrel, curved magazine and short, stubby rifle scope.
Squinting through the lingering haze and ‘fog of war’, he could barely make out the lumbering silhouettes of armoured vehicles as the prototype tanks emerged from the mists accompanied by the Tunguska flak, a troop of tanks from 3RTR (two Shermans and two of the more powerful Fireflies), a pair of M7A1 Sweepers for additional AA protection, three half-tracks, two GMC trucks loaded with infantry and a single M101 armoured personnel carrier.
The M101 peeled off from the group and headed in his direction. He didn’t wait for it to arrive; instead jogging off across rocky ground peppered with shell craters and debris. It took a minute or two to reach the vehicle, and as it drew to a halt he leaped up onto the front glacis plate with little regard for his own safety, clambering over the top and dropping straight into the open-topped troop compartment behind the driver’s area.
He rested for a moment, catching his breath with his chest heaving, and was completely caught by surprise as he finally looked up and found Sergeant Arthur Morris at the forward gunner’s station, seated beside the driver and ready to man the Browning machine gun mounted on a trainable ‘Scarff’ ring above his head.
“To what do we own this dubious pleasure?” Thorne queried with a bemused smile, chest still heaving lightly from the exertion of his arrival.
“The CO wanted someone along to keep an eye on you, sir,” Morris grinned in return, patting the pack radio jammed into the space between him and the driver. “Thought you might find a signaller useful... just in case we come up against anything nasty...” A gleaming belt of fifty-calibre ammunition snaked down from the weapon and dangled about the man’s head, creating a minor annoyance that he consciously made an effort to ignore.
“The more the merrier; welcome aboard, mate...!” Thorne grinned broadly in return, extending a hand that was instantly accepted. “I just hope we’re quick enough to catch up with Captain Donelson and the rest of my unit!” He grimaced as another, less pleasant thought occurred to him. “I really hope we’re out of here before they bloody start firing again!”
“Wouldn’t be too worried about that, sir,” Morris advised, his smile growing somewhat thinner as he used his left hand to press the earpiece of his radio headset firmly against the side of his head, clearly listening to something. “Last report indicates the battery that was firing on us has packed it in for the moment… should buy us plenty of time to clear the area before they set up again somewhere else…” there was a pause as more information came through to him via the headset “…it also appears that someone’s spotted a large force a few miles west of our lines... a large force that was apparently ‘hanging about doing nothing’ while a token assault was being mounted that wasn’t much better than company-strength.” He shrugged. “Seems your suspicions might be right about this being a trap…”
“Sucks to be me…” Thorne gave a quirky grin and a resigned shrug of his own in return. “It’d be nice not to be right once in a while… No doubt they’ll launch a full attack now if they’ve been spotted…”
“They’ll be bloody sorry if they don’t, sir,” Morris replied, his grin turning almost evil. “Colonel Anderson’s advised that Formidable has assigned ‘special assets’ to deal with them…” He went on the tell Thorne what he believed those assets to be.
“Sucks to be them…!” Thorne observed solemnly, pulling a face as he revised his earlier statement.
Fuck ‘em! Those square-headed bastards deserve everything they get…!
“Can’t say I disagree with you…” Thorne added softly, for a moment not realising the sentiments had appeared only in his own head. “They’ll be able to pick up what’s left with a stick and a spoon!”
“Not wrong there, sir,” Morris answered slowly, recognising something had just happened that he didn’t completely understand.
Wish we could be there to see it… Thorne almost felt shocked at that thought, but to his dismay, another small but quite vocal part of his own psyche deep within fervently agreed.
“Bloodthirsty buggers…” he muttered again, then rose to his feet and lifted his head well above the roof level of the APC, exposing it to the surrounding environment and causing him to wince in discomfort as his eyes were assaulted by the full force of gale-like winds that were at times circling from all directions but predominantly appeared to be originating from the west.
A newly-risen sun that had moments before been brilliant and blinding orb above the mountains of the Sinai Peninsula now appeared somewhat subdued and hazy, faintly obscured at ground level by a vague malaise of smoke and dust whipped into clouds of gritty airborne particles by the growing winds.
“Bullshit bloody desert…” he muttered grumpily under his breath as he used one hand to steady himself by gripping the nearest sidewall and delved into a top pocket with the other, drawing out a pair of green-tinted, aviator-style Ray-Bans. Turning his head, he took note of the two Sentinel tanks – ‘his’ tanks – passing a few dozen metres away to the north, their turbo-charged diesel engines roaring. Jake and Elwood... he smiled momentarily as he recalled the movie characters that were their namesakes.
“It's twenty-odd miles to Kibrit...” he declared dramatically, the smirk becoming broader as he slid the glasses down over his eyes “...we've got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it's dark... and we're wearing sunglasses...”
He stood silent for a moment, pausing for effect and for his own amusement, during which time Morris and the driver, having overheard his remarks, both stared directly up at a sky that was still a brilliant blue above them and threw each other quizzical glances.
“Um... just how dark are those sunglasses, sir...?” Morris ventured tentatively, unable to help himself.
“Oh, just bloody-well get going then...!” Thorne snapped sourly, his ‘moment’ well and truly broken, and the driver wasted no time gunning the engine and moving the APC off at good speed. Thorne swayed backward, struggling to steady himself against the sudden acceleration.
“I gotta work with a much younger audience!” He muttered softly to himself, managing a wry grin over his own embarrassment.
Maybe you should warn Eileen. Couldn’t hurt to keep her and Evan appraised of what’s going on… at least they won’t worry about you. That the voices in his head for once considered Donelson’s feelings at all was a miracle in itself – perhaps an indication of how dire the situation they were in was perceived – and it wasn’t a suggestion to be taken lightly.
“Not a bad idea at that,” Thorne agreed quickly, reaching for the microphone at his belt as the others quickly realised he was talking to himself again.
This time, Morris decided it best not to say anything at all as he made a great show of taking an interest in what he was picking up on his own radio. Luftwaffe jammers at that moment decided to kick in on the frequency he was using in any case, and with some barely-hidden relief, the sergeant swore (mostly for show) and began to fiddle with the radio set in earnest as he fought to retain a connection with his CO.
As Thorne spoke to Eileen, passing on what Morris had told him, he rose to his feet and stared out toward the east over the level of the APC’s roof. As he did so, the ad hoc battle-group swept past the battered rear trenches of the Agruda defence lines and turned north-west toward RAF Kibrit and some chance of safety.
Schiller instantly noticed the change in his commanding officer’s features as the man once again listened into Max Thorne’s transmissions; it was in fact quite hard to miss as an initial expression of distaste and general concern almost instantly metamorphosed into one of clear
and abject horror.
“Get everyone moving now!” He howled at Nehring, the volume of his voice almost painful within the tinny confines of the command vehicle. “Full assault now… now… now…!”
“Some of our units on the flanks are still preparing, Mein Herr,” the general replied quickly, not comfortable about arguing against such vehement direction. “They need a few more minutes to…”
“They’ll be taking their next orders from Saint Peter if they don’t start moving their bloody arses right now!” The dark, unadulterated fear in the man’s gaze brought home to Nehring how serious Reuters was in the silent moment after those words. An officer of the Wehrmacht was trained to question orders if they seemed ill-conceived, but a good Wehrmacht officer was also trained to trust his own instincts, and General Walter Nehring’s instincts at that moment were telling him – no, screaming at him – to follow the Reichsmarschall’s orders implicitly.
Within seconds, clouds of blue exhaust were billowing into the sky along a wide front, matching a combined roar of hundreds of powerful diesel engines so great that the very earth shook beneath them. Right along a line that stretched north-to-south for several thousand metres, a mass of tanks and armoured fighting vehicles began to rumble forward toward the British defences at Agruda.
“What is it, Kurt?” Schiller asked softly, his expression one of apprehension… apprehension that quickly became shock as his CO told him what he’d overheard. “…Scheisse…!”
“Scheisse indeed…!” Reuters agreed with a grim, tight-lipped smile. He turned back to Nehring, who’d just come off the radio after issuing further orders of far greater intensity. “Walter, advise Cairo they need to get a message immediately to the CO of that Special Forces unit... Witzig, is it?” He directed, taking a slight pause to recall the officer’s name. “The targets are on the move, headed for RAF Kibrit, and may be splitting up.”
Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2) Page 69
