So caught up as Thorne was in the man’s story, it took a few seconds to sink in regarding that last name Morris had mentioned.
“Father Brandis…” he repeated, mind wandering, and then the reality of what had been said struck home. “Brandis…? There was a priest there by the name of ‘Brandis’?”
“Yeah, Father Brandis was the curate there… helped out Father O’Donnell here and there and around the Parish from time to time. I think he was a bit of a ‘big knob’ in the Vatican though, ‘cause he was always away back to Rome for months on end. Was him who introduced me to Lizzie, now I come to think about it… I think he had a soft spot for ‘em too… looked after Briony like she was his own daughter and used to teach her how to read and write after they wouldn’t let her go to the local school on account of her being half Abo.”
“It couldn’t possibly be…” Thorne muttered softy to himself, not willing to accept the possibility of something that – if true – could in no way be a coincidence.
Ask him… the voices in his head suggested eagerly, and he could ‘hear’ the excitement in their tone. Ask him… you know you want to…!
“This curate…” Thorne began slowly, his voice tentative as if afraid someone might burst into laughter over the ridiculousness of the question he was about to ask. “…His name wouldn’t have been James Brandis by any chance…?”
“You know, sir, we only ever really called him ‘Father’ most of the time…” Morris replied, pausing for an excruciating few seconds as he cast his mind back “…but I think that might have been his name, yes…” The unlikely idea of coincidence then occurred to the NCO also in that moment. “Surely you don’t know him do you, sir?”
“I know of a man named James Brandis, but he’s no bloody priest as far as I know…” but Thorne was then forced to concede “…not that I know that much about the man, to be honest…”
Any hope of finding out more was shattered as Thorne’s belt radio mike burst into life at that moment and broke the spell of conversation completely.
“Max, this is Mitch: those choppers have turned inbound now and they’re coming fast… I think they’re definitely onto us now, sir…”
“This conversation is so not over...” Thorne snapped quickly at Morris as he fumbled for the microphone at his belt and raised it to his lips, absolute professionalism and focus on the situation at hand now the only things on his mind. “Understood, Mitch...” he replied “...they headed our way…?”
“Negative, sir…they’re making a beeline straight for Eileen and the rest of the Hindsight group…”
“Fuck...! You got a clear shot at them?”
“Not yet: they’re flying N-O-E with some low hills in the way… I can’t guarantee a hit at the moment...” Mitch answered quickly, and Thorne understood that he meant the gunships were flying ‘Nap-of-the-Earth’ – hugging the contours of the ground and remaining as low as possible to maintain cover from enemy fire and radar. “They have to come out in the open before they reach Eileen’s position though… visual’s going to shit but we’ll have ‘em clear as day on radar when that happens.”
“Torch ‘em the moment they do…!” Thorne growled softly without a moment’s hesitation.
A few hundred metres behind them, the guns of the Tunguska mobile flak vehicle turned quickly on to the gunships’ anticipated heading and waited patiently, the elevation of the missile launch tubes on either side of the turret adjusting slightly as the crew inside bided their time.
Hauptmann Nils Faber banked his SH-6G gunship around into a wide turn and brought it back onto an easterly heading, pulling down the tinted visor of his flight helmet for protection against the glare of the morning sun. He swore softly and tried to ignore the fiery ball rising above the horizon, instead forcing his eyes down to the ground immediately ahead as the staffel wove its way between dunes and low rocky hills, never more than a hundred metres above the ground.
He’d been a gunship pilot right from introduction into service at the beginning of the war almost three years earlier, and he’d flown many missions from France and England through to Greece and the Balkans prior to his squadron’s move to North Africa. Of all of them, he hated his current posting the most. The current weather surrounding him was a perfect example of the infuriating dichotomy that was the North African climate: barely an hour after sunrise and the temperature was already climbing to uncomfortable levels within the cockpit under the concentrated blast of that unforgiving, desert sun; yet at the same time a quite substantial sandstorm was brewing that – if it continued to worsen – would soon render most of the all-powerful Luftwaffe completely useless.
Nevertheless, it was the heat that remained their most dangerous enemy. Faber’s gunship was powered by a gasoline-fuelled piston engine, as were all Wehrmacht helicopters in service, and in the Drache’s case that powerplant was a Junkers Jumo inverted V12. Within days of arriving in North Africa for the first time, it had been discovered that the oppressive heat quickly overloaded the aircraft’s cooling systems to the point of seizing the engine, something that generally produced disastrous results if it happened while the gunship was in the air. A hasty field modification had increased the size of the SH-6’s radiators and capacity of its coolant reservoirs, but it had been a stopgap measure at best and a pilot ignored his temperature gauges at his own peril.
There were rumours that new engines were coming that could better handle operations in hot climates – ones based on the amazing turbojets powering the new S-16 fighter – but that was little consolation to the men of SHG3 as they buzzed along at tree-top height (had there indeed been any trees to speak of) like a cluster of huge, angry insects in loose, drawn out formation, as always keeping one eye on their gauges for any sign of overheating.
“I have a visual on the enemy convoy, Mein Herr,” came the call from one of his lead ships as the flight crested a slight rise and swooped down the other side in two very loose groups of four. “Three thousand metres and closing, bearing one-two-nine...”
“Acknowledged, Klaus – very good. Maintain altitude, men...” he added over the same open channel “...we know they’ve got some medium flak down there somewhere: don’t give them a chance to use it unless you have to.”
The gunships would each take a turn to ‘pop-up’ for a few seconds above the cover of the surrounding area, quickly take in the surrounding terrain – including any threats or targets – and dive back down again, waiting a few moments before another of the flight repeated the process and thus guarding any one aircraft against extended exposure to enemy fire. The manoeuvre was known as a ‘kastenteufel’ or ‘jack-in-the-box’ in training circles; in the real world of combat, where too long spent exposed to the enemy often earned a far more lethal ‘reward’ than a dressing down by one’s trainer, the crews of the gunships themselves had accorded the activity the far less complimentary nickname of ‘Russisches roulette’.
“I suspect they know we’re coming, Mein Herr,” Schaefer, his gunner mused over the intercom from his position directly in front of him in the front seat of the tandem cockpit. “Not easy to hide the sound of a staffel of kanoneschiffe…” The correct RLM description of their aircraft was a kampfhubschrauber – literally ‘battle helicopter’ – but that didn’t stop most of the actual combat crews referring to them by the more colloquial title of ‘gunship’ that had first been coined – it was believed – by Reichsmarschall Reuters himself.
At that same moment, one of the choppers at the far end of the formation executed another kastenteufel, only to dive back down to cover barely in the nick of time as five rounds of 40mm and a barrage of .50 calibre slugs scythed through the air where it’d been a split-second earlier.
“I’m bloody certain they know we’re coming, Emil,” Faber observed with a dry smile, “but that’s probably just as well considering our mission is to halt their withdrawal rather than to actually destroy them. We’re not here to make bloody martyrs of ourselves either, boys” he added o
ver the open intercom. “Only give them enough of a look at us to make them keep their heads down. Fire off a few rounds in their direction if you have to, but do not put yourselves in any more danger than is necessary: I’ll be damned if I’ll risk our lives when we’re not even allowed to shoot back!”
“Mein herr…” Feldwebel Emil Schaefer asked slowly, his attention clearly distracted by something off to the south as he broke in over the end of his commander’s last sentence “…did HQ mention anything about nebelwerfer support…?”
As Faber turned to stare in the same direction, having no clue as to what his gunner was talking about, he too caught sight of two long, thin streaks of grey smoke arching in toward them at incredible speed.
“Emil…” he began with equal slowness, fear of the unknown creeping into his voice as the hairs rose on the back of his neck “…I don’t think they’re – !”
He never finished the sentence. At the last moment, one of the 57E6 guided missiles streaking across the sky at better than four times the speed of sound adjusted its course slightly and darted in toward them, smashing the gunship to pieces in a huge, billowing cloud of flame and black smoke. Another more Drache was destroyed simultaneously, blasted from the sky in similar fashion, and was followed by two more just a few seconds later.
The formation fell apart as half of their number basically disintegrated before the eyes of the remaining crews. Two turned away to the north-west purely out of reflex, the action probably saving their lives, while the remaining two instead broke in the other direction, both pilots’ calm and control shattered by the sudden and unexpected loss of their friends and colleagues. Neither took enough care to maintain their ultra-low altitude, and as both banked away to the south-east, the gunships inadvertently climbed through the middle of their turns.
The height gained was no more than a hundred metres or so, but a momentary break in the surrounding dust storm rather unfortunately left both aircraft in clear view of the dug-in Hindsight defenders by the abandoned airfield. One was smashed apart by no less than three direct hits from one of the ‘Porteed’ Bofors guns while the other was shredded and left mortally wounded by the devastatingly concentrated fire of the M16 half-track’s four .50-calibre Brownings. Suddenly bereft of all power and savagely, mortally wounded, the SH-6G entered into an out-of-control, downward spiral trailing fire and smoke all the way before slamming into the ground seconds later and exploding in a huge fireball.
Cheers arose from the trenches from the airfield, and even Eileen – who was normally one of the more serious of the group – allowed herself a moment of hope as she punched the air at the enemy aircraft’s demise.
“There’ll be more of them along soon enough,” Lloyd observed, almost managing to suppress the elation he also felt. “We’re a long way from out of the woods yet.”
“I know Evan, I know…” Donelson conceded, the smile wavering just for a second or two “…but we got in a good ‘first punch’ at least, and those missiles mean Max and the rest of the tanks are getting closer. We’ll be a much harder nut to crack once we can all form up together.”
“Well, we now know for certain which group has the Tunguska,” Reuters observed wryly, trying very hard to overlook the fact that several excellent helicopter crews just lost their lives for very little return. “Assuming ‘worst case’ and they have an upgraded ‘Pantsir’ model rather than the older Tunguska-M, that means they have at most eight missiles left they can fire without the need to reload.”
“And a pair of bloody great cannon that can shoot the arse off a mosquito at four thousand meters…” Schiller countered with equal dryness in his tone.
“And a pair of cannon, yes,” Reuters granted grudgingly, reluctant to concede the point, “but they’re still far more vulnerable without missiles and an awful lot easier to overwhelm.”
“Commanding officers will be sending an awful lot more condolence telegrams to the families of whomever gets sent up against them next,” Schiller pointed out as the pair stood in their same position beside the Marder command vehicle, the assault to the south unfolding in the distance. Eager as he too was to see the Hindsight group captured or destroyed, he also thought it perhaps prudent to point out a few minor home truths to his friend and CO. Reuters’ desire to destroy Max Thorne sometimes bordered on an obsession, but his aide knew all-too-well how much some senseless sacrifice would affect the man later on one the heat of battle had worn off.
“What aerial assets to we have to spare in the area?” Reuters demanded, turning toward Nehring with a sigh of long-suffering resignation regarding his friend as the general poked his head out from the open rear of the command vehicle.
“One moment, Mein Herr,” Nehring snapped immediately, disappearing inside once more only to reappear few seconds later with a large clipboard in one hand. “Latest update from Fliegerkorps…” he continued, stepping fully from the vehicle and approaching the two men, “…advises the following geschwadern as being available…” He silently ran his finger down a short but detailed list until it stopped about a third of the way down the page.
“We have SG2 just took off from Almaza five minutes ago, assigned to the Ismailia front. They have the new attack jets, Mein Herr… dedicated panzerknackern…”
“I know who they are, Herr General,” Reuters snapped quickly in return. “That’s Willi Meier’s unit… good man… excellent pilot…” The Reichsmarschall’s and Meier’s paths had crossed once two years earlier during the invasion of Great Britain, brought together by the perceived loss (later proven false) of a man close to both men… a man who’d been the friend of one and the father of the other.
“You really want to risk Meier on this one?” Schiller was surprised that Reuters was even contemplating the idea, although the thoughtful expression on the man’s face indicated he was indeed doing exactly that.
“His sacrifice would be no greater or less than that of any other man’s today should he fall,” the Reichsmarschall replied, sounding perhaps a little colder about it than he actually intended, “but I don’t necessarily think this is a suicide mission if the men are good enough. I think if we make it clear to Meier what exactly he’s up against – remind him of when he was last thrown into battle against these Tunguskas – he might well leap at the opportunity to take it out.” He gave a smile that was all bitterness and no mirth whatsoever. “Take it from me, Albert: revenge is an excellent motivator.”
“But Ritter wasn’t even actually killed that day,” Schiller pointed out, not feeling he’d be doing his job if he didn’t act as agent provocateur.
“We both thought he had been for several months before discovering otherwise,” Reuters shot back quickly, his voice almost becoming a snarl. “Believe me, old friend, the pain and anguish of those says still burns deeply after all this time, and from what I saw of Willi Meier that day we talked, I’ll lay money on his feeling exactly the same way about it that I do… if not quite to the same intensity…” he added quickly, conceding at least that point.
“Besides,” Reuters continued, changing tack, “do you know who else is in Meier’s unit…?”
“I have no doubt you’re about to enlighten me, Mein Herr,” Schiller replied with amused sarcasm, making it quite clear his answer was in the negative.
“Only one Hans-Ulrich Rudel,” his CO replied with the hint triumph in his tone, adding quite unnecessarily: “…possibly the finest ground attack pilot the world has ever known…”
“Old ‘Sprudie Rudie’…?” Schiller grinned with feigned surprise, bastardizing the man’s well-known and disliked nickname more than Reuters would’ve believed even his 2IC capable of. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place, Kurt? Why, now you’ve told me that I almost feel sorry for those poor Hindsight bastards.”
“Dummkopf…!” Reuters muttered under his breath, trying to ignore the man’s sarcastic irreverence as he turned his gaze toward Nehring and Schiller released a soft snort of mild derision that did nothing to improv
e the Reichsmarschall’s mood. “Herr General, hand me that clipboard and a pen if you would be so kind…?”
Nehring passed both over quickly and stood waiting patiently as Reuters proceeded to flip over the top sheets until he found a blank page.
“Now…” he continued slowly, his eyes never leaving the paper as he started writing “Have Fliegerkorps assign SG2 to the attack on the Hindsight group immediately…” he continued writing, his face a mask of concentration “…and I want you… to give them this message… and tell them they’re to pass it on to Oberstleutnant Meier personally…” He finished with a flourish and tore the page from the board, handing it directly across to Nehring. “It must be word-for-word, you understand…?”
“Of course, Mein Herr…! At once…!”
“Oh, and Walter…” the Reichsmarschall added quickly, halting the man as he turned to leave “…have them also send over a gruppe of fighters first to clear the way… make sure they’re not jets…”
“It seems one man’s loss being no greater or less doesn’t also apply to materiel then,” Schiller observed acidly when they were alone once more, all humour having drained from his face as he’d listened to his friend cheerfully order the certain death of at least a dozen or more unsuspecting pilots and be so mercenary about it as to ensure none of their valuable new jet fighters were lost in the process.
“Pilots we have plenty of… jet fighters on the other hand, we can’t replace fast enough,” Reuters observed coldly, turning toward the battle east of their position and making a great show of casually raising a pair of field glasses to his eyes. “And Albert…” he added, making no move to lower the binoculars or turn in the man’s direction “…a good second-in-command always knows when to speak and when to remain silent…”
Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2) Page 74
