Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2)

by Charles S. Jackson

  Two more Thors exploded in quick succession at that same end of the German line as the bulk of the enemy force slowly began to turn about to face the new threat, and Lloyd clearly saw the chance to take the initiative as their opponents were suddenly caught off guard.

  “Come on, you lot…!” He yelled loudly, rising up out of the trench and waving a free hand for all around to see. “Let’s go shove it right up their arses…!” And with that last, all too Australian statement, he clambered over the lip of the trench and charged toward the nearest section of the turning German line, Bazooka in hand and rifle slung on his back, clattering as he ran.

  Happy to accede to the SAS lieutenant’s experience and allow him to take command for the attack, Donelson wasn’t far behind him all the same, rifle held high as she stayed close to his right flank, ready to do what she could to protect his advance. Around her she heard an adrenalin-charged howl sweep through the rest of the men as they too surged forward out of cover and into the open, most already firing their rifles to provide cover for a precious few carrying anti-tank launchers; men who desperately needed to cover a few hundred metres of open ground in order to bring their weapons within effective range of the nearest enemy vehicles.

  Major Rudolf Witzig hadn’t been doing the talking after 1FSK had taken position along the Genaiva Road, neutralising the British convoy’s makeshift flak and armoured vehicles in the process. The task of communicating surrender demands had been left to an SS officer attached to the Abwehr who possessed a far greater fluency with English than he. The man had been operating out of a Valkyrie APC toward the eastern end of their line, and as the young officer now turned his turret in that direction – the very same direction from which the first of the new explosions had originated – he realised with a first inkling of fear and dismay that that vehicle in particular had been one of those already destroyed.

  Their intel, backed up by radio traffic from the enemy themselves, had suggested that the relief column to the south would not reach them in time to present a threat. All the same he’d prudently placed a pair of Thors manned by two of his best crews at the eastern periphery of his line, tasked to keep watch over their right flank and rear and warn of the approach of any Allied reinforcements.

  “Forward at full throttle, bearing one-nine-three…!” He bellowed through the throat mike of his intercom, cursing the growing sandstorm for perhaps the hundredth time already that day.

  Trying to spot an approaching enemy in conditions of such low visibility that were worsening by the hour was a difficult enough proposition at the best of times, and he assumed the tanks that were now attacking their right flank were adorned in camouflage paint schemes that were just as effective as theirs. It was always a fifty/fifty chance at best whether you’d see an enemy and get off the first shot before he saw you also, and it was unfortunately apparent that this was one situation where that chance had gone against them.

  He scanned his episcopes, desperately hoping to find a target – any target – but knew instinctively that he was still too far away from that section of the line to see anything yet through the sand-filled winds howling about outside his vehicle.

  “Arno… Truppe-Ein to advance behind the line on bearing one-eight-zero, echelon right… Truppe-Zwei…” he paused a moment as he turned his scopes back to the north momentarily and his mind registered what was happening in that direction “…Truppe-Zwei – what the bloody hell are you doing?” The question was issued as a frustrated howl in reaction to the inexplicable, momentary stupidity of his own men. “Do not change course – maintain your advance on the airfield positions. You are exposing your flanks…! Turn back to original course…! Turn back immediately…!”

  But the damage was already done. A high-level of confidence regarding the weak nature of the enemy to their direct front, combined with complete surprise over an attack from an unexpected direction, had caused the troop commander to swing his Thor about to face the perceived new threat without thinking or consulting – more importantly –with his direct superior. The rest of the troop had followed his lead with mechanical precision in the mistaken assumption that he knew what he was doing. The enemy before them was beaten, after all and had presented no threat whatsoever.

  That all changed now however as Lloyd and a dozen other SAS soldiers of varying ranks charged out toward them across open ground with anti-tank weapons in their hands, supported by a similar number of non-combat troops and one or two armed civilians. Men positioned at either end of the thin Allied line laid down supressing fire from the flanks with assault rifles and light machine guns while the centre continued on, bolting from rock to rock, gully to gully as each man sought whatever meagre cover the land could provide while at all times still pushing forward, desperately striving to bring the momentarily-distracted enemy within range of their anti-tank weapons.

  With their desert-pattern camouflage, an infantryman taking cover or at the crouch was not easy to spot for gunners locked down inside the turret of an armoured vehicle and peering out in search of targets through a swirling sandstorm. That they were taking fire from enemy armour from an entirely different direction was also a significant distraction for the crews of 1FSK’s Second Troop as they returned to their advance.

  The automatic weapons fire had little effect on the armoured vehicles, but it had a definite and immediate effect on the supporting infantry, who dove instantly for cover themselves as a fusillade of 7.62mm slugs sizzled about them on all sides. The armoured vehicles of course were largely immune to fire from rifle-calibre weapons however the distraction provided by the hail-like clatter of slugs whining and ricocheting from their steel hides drew attention from gunners already confused by the attacks from the east: attention that could’ve been far better directed against men armed with rocket launchers of varying types and sizes.

  One of the two-man PITA teams came to a halt while still perhaps five hundred metres away from the leading Thors, the gunner shouldering the weapon from one knee while his accompanying loader unlocked the conical venturi section at its rear and twisted it to one side.

  “High explosive!”

  “HE loaded…!” The loader bellowed loudly as he slotted a long, blunt-nosed 84mm round into the weapon and locked the venturi into place once more. “BBDA clear…!” He added with similar volume, tapping his partner firmly on the shoulder at the same time as a physical notification. The acronym stood for ‘Back-Blast Danger Area’ and was an acknowledgement from the loader than the area directly to the rear of the firer was empty of any personnel or dangerous obstruction.

  There was a surprisingly soft ‘crump’ accompanied by a huge cloud of exhaust to rear of the team that swept up stones and debris and sprayed it over a wide area. Forward of the weapon, a three kilogram high explosive warhead streaked from the muzzle at 250 metres per second, hurtling downrange trailing flare of a pink tracer. At a range of half a kilometre or thereabouts the likelihood of hitting a moving vehicle was relatively small however it was still well within the weapon’s effective range against unprotected troops and stationary targets.

  An exceptionally lucky shot, the shell impacted no more than ten metres from a squad of infantry and detonated in a huge cloud of upward-thrown earth as sizzling fragments of shrapnel radiated outward from the blast, slicing through flesh and leaving death and serious injury in their wake. The nearest of the approaching Thors also mistook the explosion as the impact of a tank shell and incorrectly assumed they were being fired upon from the east. The subsequent evasive manoeuver it undertook accomplished little save for throwing out the gunner’s aim at the very moment he’d managed to line his co-axial machine gun on a group of charging Australians, the stream of tracer he released flying high and wide.

  He quickly adjusted his aim, intending to walk his fire back into the middle of the group, but was rudely interrupted by Lieutenant Evan Lloyd as the SAS officer threw himself to the ground two hundred metres away at the end of a short sprint and came up onto one knee
a second later with the ‘Rocket Launcher M1A1’ (more commonly known as the Bazooka) over his right shoulder. A small rocket-propelled grenade burst from the tube and arced across the intervening distance in a little more than a second, striking the Thor squarely on the turret’s gun mantle right above the driver’s hatch.

  There wasn’t much of an initial explosion – just a small, actinic flash of light against the front of the vehicle – however every hatch instantly blew open as thick, black smoke billowed skyward and the Thor immediately rolled to an abrupt halt. Whether or not anyone was still alive within the vehicle was of little consequence to Lloyd as he discarded the used launcher and unslung the assault rifle from his back, already seeking another target.

  “Fire mission… fire mission!” Witzig howled into his radio mike as his gunner opened up with the turret-mounted 23mm cannon, hosing high-explosive shells into the northern flank of the Donelson’s group in an attempt to suppress their attack. He too was finding it difficult to identify individual targets and he quickly recognised the real danger that a determined attack might present in such low-visibility conditions. “I want mortar fire on Isolde’s position now!”

  “Fire mission acknowledged,” the troop leader of their four Odin mortar carriers responded immediately from a position 1,500 metres to the rear of their main force. “Coordinates please, mein herr…?”

  “Grid reference as follows…” the CO of 1FSK shot back in an instant, providing the required information. “Full barrage – set for airburst!”

  “Coordinates received,” the lieutenant replied a moment later. “Firing in thirty seconds…”

  Wake up...!

  The first thing Thorne experienced as he began to regain consciousness was pain; blinding, splintering pain that flared both within and outside the back of his head and drew a strangled groan from his lips before he was even able to open his eyes. It was a moment or two before he fully realised that the roar and shuddering vibration that surrounded him wasn’t actually all in his head: that he was in fact laying in the rear cargo bay of a 2½-ton GMC truck, currently thundering across the open desert at what appeared to be a speed far in excess of anything advisable for such uneven terrain.

  Wake up, you useless bastard...!

  With some mental effort, he forcibly willed his own eyes open and flinched at the added pain that momentarily gave in return. Another minute or two and he was able to lift his head and take in his surroundings. There were at least fifteen men of various ranks in the vehicle, including himself, and most of those he did not recognise. Sergeant Morris was there however, manning a .50 Browning machine gun mounted above the rear centre of the crew cab and doing his best to remain in an upright position as they bumped and crashed violently across the uneven, rocky surface.

  The way ahead was as obscured as ever by the swirling dust storm, with visibility now down to little more than four or five hundred metres, but they could all hear the dull but not-so-distant boom and thud of the Sentinels hitting their targets somewhere up ahead to the east. Thorne had no idea how long he’d been out but it couldn’t have been more than a few moments, and they were now very near indeed to the ongoing battle. How well the completely unarmoured truck he was currently travelling in might fare should they make contact with enemy forces was something best not thought about.

  Suck it up, princess...!

  “Oh, blow it out your ass,” Thorne growled finally, no longer able to ignore the irritation of the voices within his own mind. He raised a hand to his head and winced at the resulting pain, drawing back his fingers to discover them tainted with blood that continued to ooze from a gash above the hairline of his left temple. Taking hold of the truck’s tailgate with the other hand, he forced himself unsteadily to his feet and staggered forward in a few uneasy steps to take a position beside Morris at the rear of the crew cab.

  “Nice to see you’re back with us, sir,” the sergeant observed with little cheer, his concentration mainly focussed on remaining steady behind the gun. “Nasty crack on yer head there...”

  “Nothing a year away from this fuckin’ place wouldn’t fix,” Thorne snarled back, rubbing gingerly at his head again as his other hand also held onto the body of the truck for much-needed stability. It was at that point that the rest of his recall suddenly came flooding back and he desperately glanced down to his own waist to find the radio he sought was missing from his belt. “Oh, for fuck’s sake...!”

  “I figured you didn’t need it while you were out cold, sir,” Morris explained with a grin, lifting the microphone from his own belt and holding it up for display, much to the great relief of its owner. “The Sentinels are goin’ through ‘em like a dose of salts, sir, and we’ll be on ‘em ourselves in a minute or two more.”

  As he looked around, Thorne could see just three remaining armoured vehicles: one Sherman, one Firefly and a lone M3 half-track that was also filled with men carrying various small arms. The obvious assumption that the rest of the troop had been destroyed or put out of action – much like the precious Tunguska –was a bitter reality indeed.

  Eileen lifted her rifle and fired off a number of quick, aimed shots on semi-auto as she caught a fleeting glimpse of several uniformed shapes in the distance through the whirling sand. Like most of her team, she’d found and pulled on a set of goggles to protect her eyes that were well worth the effort despite being something of a hindrance when shouldering a weapon.

  Returned fire, both in the form of machine guns and the occasional 88mm shell, was sizzling past her on either side, and she’d have been the first to admit as she took cover in an old bomb crater barely deep enough to provide protection while crouching, that she was absolutely terrified. It was a terror however that she knew only too well that the men around her were also no doubt experiencing and as their commander, it fell to her to remain calm in the heat of battle.

  From her position, she could see that her men had already taken down one of the four approaching turreted reconnaissance vehicles and two more of the accompanying light APCs, but three of the powerfully-armed armoured cars still remained and she had lost contact with three of her dedicated anti-tank teams. The most likely reason was that they’d been either killed or otherwise put out of action, leaving just one PITA launcher and one captured Panzerfaust.

  There were still at least five of the American Bazookas out there also in the hands of men desperately trying to close to within the weapon’s 200m effective range, but they were one-shot ‘throw-away’ items that were difficult to use on moving targets, even under conditions that were far better than those available to them right at that moment.

  The pair of Sentinels were already causing havoc on the eastern end of the German line and it was unlikely the light recon vehicles they’d so far seen would have any effect on the tanks’ almost impenetrable frontal armour, but whether Jake or Elwood would arrive in time to save them from complete annihilation was another matter entirely. She raised her head once more and fired off three more shots, pausing for a second or two to take in the situation around her, and horror spread across her features in that moment as she heard the first eerie, unmistakable whistle of incoming mortar shells.

  “Take cover...! Take cover...!” Evan’s voice howled out over the radio, beating her to it by mere seconds as the deep, solid ‘crack’ of the first four shell impacts nearby reached her ears, shaking the earth. Four more struck fifteen seconds later, followed by four more in quick succession and she soon began to receive reports of dead and wounded from all around as the agonized screams of mortally-wounded men reached her ears.

  “Beatrice to Sentinel One...!” She screamed desperately into the microphone of her radio, not waiting for a response as one shell landed terrifyingly close and sprayed her with earth and debris. “We’re under mortar attack and taking heavy casualties! Immediate assistance required...!”

  “Fuck me...” Thorne whispered softly, low enough for Morris to miss the words, although his expression was clear enough. Then his feature
s hardened as despair made way for a renewed anger and determination. Extending his free hand, he took the microphone from Morris and stretched the coiled cord across front of the man’s body as he raised it to his lips.

  “Remember, they’re listening in to everything we say, sir,” Morris ventured carefully, recalling Thorne’s earlier reaction to similar news.

  “‘Remember’…?” Thorne replied, a sneer almost crossing his lips. “Mate, I’m bloody-well counting on it!”

  He paused for a moment before depressing the transmit key and then, much to the sergeant’s complete amazement, proceeded to speak in clear, concise and quite fluent German.

  “Listen up, whoever the fuck you are… This is Air Vice Marshal Max Thorne… the man you’ve just failed to capture. Failed… do you hear me? You sprung your trap and you fucked it up like the pack of useless bloody schwule you are!” The venom-laced words were spat from his lips with all the fury and scorn he could muster. “I know you’re listening, and I’ll say this only once: get out now and those of you left will leave with your lives…” He paused again, this time purely for effect. “…Show any further resistance and we will grind every single one of you into the dust…!”

  Morris couldn’t understand a word of German, but he could understand the tone well enough and it was quite clear that Thorne had just handed the enemy an ultimatum. How that ultimatum was actually going to be enforced was something that wasn’t really clear at that moment, but something about the spirit and the enthusiasm of the man beside him somehow made the sergeant believe they really did have a chance of coming out on top.

  “We hear you, mein schatz…” came the sudden reply as the radio crackled into life. “Verpiss dich, du hurensohn…!”

  Although he again understood not a word, Morris nevertheless recognised that none of the reply had been complimentary; a fact reinforced by the savage tone in which it’d been delivered