Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2)

by Charles S. Jackson

  “Grenade…!” Corporal Lionel Tims called out a warning as he dragged the pin from a 36M ‘Mills Bomb’ and hurled it as hard as he could, right over the top of the upturned truck. There came the loud crack of detonation a few seconds later, followed by the audible screams of at least two men.

  “Cop that, ya bastards…” Chalk called out, knowing he was unlikely to be heard over the gunfire but feeling better for it all the same. A moment later, another fusillade of machine gun and rifle fire slammed into the other side of the truck body, peppering it with deadly hail. Many penetrated completely and howled on out through the other side above the heads of the cowering men; three however struck Tims square in the chest as he remained standing, preparing to throw a second grenade.

  He toppled over onto his face, his back a sea of crimson gore where the slugs had torn bloody exit wounds and continued on their way. Morris turned and watched in horror as the grenade fell from his limp fingers, pin already pulled, and the safety lever instantly flew upward and spiralled away, rebounding against the GMC’s shattered cab.

  Private Gary Chalk, lying directly beside where Tims had fallen, didn’t even think twice about it as the live Mills Bomb rolled toward him across the rocky ground. He instantly threw himself face down across it, spreadeagling himself even as Morris and the others began to scream a warning that was far too late. The muffled crump that went off beneath his body killed him instantly and lifted him half a metre or so into the air before unceremoniously dumping what was left in a ragged, mutilated heap surrounded by a spreading pool of deep red blood that sunk quickly into the dry earth.

  Two German grenades detonated nearby a second or two later, one to either side of the truck. They were standard-issue offensive-type Model 39 ‘Egg’ grenades relying primarily on blast for effect rather than fragmentation, and the simultaneous explosions produced enough concussive force to momentarily daze and disorient Morris and those few remaining wounded who were actually conscious.

  Struggling to clear his mind and vision, Morris was caught completely by surprise as a rifle-armed grenadier appeared directly before him. He recoiled backward as the trooper’s rifle came up then whipped down again, the stock smashing against the sergeant’s forehead and leaving him rolling about the hard earth in stunned agony. He struggled unsuccessfully to rise several times, the muzzle of an assault rifle trained on him the whole time, before he finally conceded the effort was currently beyond him. He instead managed to lean himself up against the underside of the upturned GMC, glaring sullenly at two remaining Germans who were now the only two present with weapons in their hands.

  “How many are you? Where are the others?” Sergeant Drescher barked in broken English, although not with anywhere near enough sufficient intimidation to have any effect on Morris, whose thoughts were now finally clearing once more.

  Behind the German NCO, Gottleib and another grenadier stood apart several metres away, weapons held at the hip and ready to fire from positions where they could cover the entire group should anyone try to cause trouble.

  “Where are the rest of your men...?”

  Morris was about to shout back an angry reply – about to give the German a suggestion as to what he could do with himself rather than any legitimate answer to his questions – but lost any thought of such action the moment he noticed the glow of a tiny, green spot suddenly coming to rest on the centre of the man’s chest. As the sand continued to howl about them, there were moments when sections of the laser beam producing that pinprick of light were also visible and for the first time, Drescher also noticed the faint, green light playing about his upper torso.

  “Say g’day to the rest of our men...!” Morris whispered, too soft for anyone else to hear as an expectant grin spread across his face.

  The feldwebel glanced up, his eyes following the flickering light back out into the swirling sands to its point of origin and frowned in puzzlement at the faint, starlike twinkle of iridescent green he could now see growing ever closer from the other side of the wrecked truck. It was the last thing he ever saw, and there was no sound of a shot as four huge, .45 calibre holes suddenly appeared in the centre of his chest. Whatever final moan of pain or recognition escaped his lips was lost on the howling winds as Feldwebel Drescher collapsed to the ground in a lifeless heap.

  Thorne reached the rear of the wreck at around the same time Gottleib began to turn in his direction, the limited peripheral vision afforded by his goggles picking up movement as Drescher had fallen. The MG5 was still held at his hip and he wasn’t completely alert to the presence of danger, having heard no gunfire over the general background howl of the winds about him. He was therefore also caught unawares as the deadly, green beam of laser light sought him out and centred on his own chest.

  Thorne was too pumped on his own adrenalin to consider any longer-term issues at that point as he continued to advance on the machine-gun armed private. The USP, now fitted with a bulky silencer almost 30cm long, was held outstretched before him with left hand cupping and steadying his right in classic ‘Weaver’ stance. The huge pistol fired four more shots without notable sound or muzzle flash, all of them again striking in a tight group at the centre of man’s torso.

  Gottleib was forgotten the moment his body began to collapse, Thorne’s attention now completely focussed on the existence of the last remaining grenadier standing a few metres to the right of the falling gunner. That man was at least given sufficient time to comprehend what was happening and made some effort to bring his own weapon to bear, although the attempt would be fruitless in the end. Four more rounds smashed into his chest also in two short, sharp ‘double-taps’, the jacketed .45-inch slugs shattering the man’s vital organs and killing him instantly. He released a single, thunderous burst from his own rifle in reflex, sending a streaming arc of fire pointlessly skyward as he fell.

  “Are you all right, Arthur?” Thorne called back over his shoulder as he continued to stand over the last of the dead Germans, weapon at his side as he stared down at the lifeless corpse. His eyes were wide and wild with a combined level of fear, excitement and adrenalin that bordered on hysteria and he completely failed to realise in that moment that the USP’s slide was now locked open, indicating the magazine was empty.

  “Right enough, Max... right enough...” Morris answered eventually, groaning as he forced himself to his feet. He was unaware at that point that his soft reply had gone unheeded, drowned out completely by the gale whirling about them. He limped slowly toward Thorne’s position, using the truck for support and screened completely from the other side of the vehicle by its upturned body. “Thought we were done for then, but – !”

  “Drop your weapon...!” The bellowed words in heavily-accented English cut off anything else the NCO might’ve said as Hauptsturmführer Arno Schreiner stepped into view from the opposite side of the wrecked GMC holding a cocked pistol before him in his outstretched right hand.

  “Drop it...! Drop it now!” Schreiner screamed once more, drawing to within a few metres of Thorne and moving with a noticeable limp of his own. In his left hand he appeared to be carrying something – a pair of small photographs – and he glanced down at them now, his aim never wavering for a moment. “It is you!” He continued at a slightly lower volume and intensity, a smile creeping across his face as he recognised the unbelievable luck of his discovery.

  In addition to the injuries already received during his ejection from the turret of his Thor, he was now also bleeding from several shrapnel wounds to the left side of his torso received from Tims’ thrown grenade. The right lens of the standard-issue Afrika Korps goggles he wore was also shattered, forcing him to squint continually against the ingress of wind and sand through the jagged hole at the centre of his vision.

  Morris looked quickly about, realising the hopelessness of the situation with no weapon now within easy reach, and he dared not make any sudden moves to reach for one for fear of alerting the enemy to his presence. Too late, Thorne realise his own weapon’s
magazine was empty, and as he threw a glance in the NCO’s direction he too instantly picked up that Morris could not take up a rifle without revealing his existence. Schreiner caught the momentary movement of his eyes, misreading it completely, and fired a round into the earth by Thorne’s feet, causing him to flinch and take a step back.

  “Make any move and I will shoot you!” The SS officer warned darkly, leaving no doubt as to his sincerity on that subject. “My primary orders were for your capture but it was made quite clear, should that prove impossible, that death would be considered an acceptable alternative.

  A great many thoughts coursed through Max Thorne’s mind in that moment as he stood motionless, considering the very few options that remained open to him. The man’s words confirmed what he’d suspected for some time – that the entire operation had been mounted to either capture or kill himself and/or others of the Hindsight unit – and that was ultimately something he couldn’t allow, both for reasons of security and out of pure bloody-mindedness that he’d rather die than be brought before Kurt Reuters as a prisoner.

  Thorne tensed his body, preparing to make his move. The holster at his belt held two replacement magazines for the pistol and there was a combat knife strapped to the webbing on his opposite hip, but even as he tilted the useless pistol slightly in his hands, pointing the muzzle in Schreiner’s general direction, he knew full well that he’d never be quick enough to successfully go for either option. In that moment however, he decided that he simply didn’t care.

  The Viridian laser sight mounted beneath the USP’s muzzle also incorporated a quite powerful tactical light which possessed a ‘strobe’ feature that could be potentially dazzling to an opponent. It wasn’t dark enough to make full use of the feature as he flicked the switch, however the combined, alternating effect of flickering green laser beam and powerful, strobing white light, aimed directly into Schreiner’s eyes at such close range, nevertheless produced a split-second or two of distraction.

  Thorne’s free hand began to move, reaching for the knife at his belt as he willed his body forward, knowing full well he’d never cross the intervening metres between them in time. Resignation regarding his own death changed quickly to outright horror however as Sergeant Morris appeared in his peripheral vision, also moving toward the Schreiner with hands balled into fists. With a howl of rage that was as much intended to instil his own courage as it was to terrify, the NCO burst from the relative cover of the upturned truck and lunged at the SS officer, throwing himself across the intervening distance with as much speed as his injury would allow.

  Even for a momentarily-distracted Schreiner, there was more than enough time to register the unexpected threat to his right and turn his pistol in that direction. The P-38 was already bucking in his hand even as Thorne’s own horrified warning cry rose on his lips, the spent cartridge cases spinning away with the wind as he too began to move forward. Five rounds hammered into Morris, stitching a bloody pattern across his body from groin to shoulder. His war cry became a scream of agony as the 9mm slugs exploded from his back in a spray of blood and torn flesh, but momentum alone carried him on and he slammed full-tilt into Schreiner, toppling both men to the hard ground in a tangled heap.

  Schreiner was fit and tough and possessed the kind of lightning-fast reflexes one would expect from a well-trained member of an elite Special Forces unit. He instinctively rolled with the impact, allowing gravity to drag the mortally-wounded Morris away from him as he reached the apex of the manoeuvre and sprung deftly back onto his feet, pistol still in hand. He was nevertheless simply too close for there to be time to bring his weapon to bear once more and he was knocked to the ground again as an enraged Max Thorne smashed into him with a rugby-style shoulder charge. Thorne’s right hand came up under the German’s left side as they fell, fist clenched around the hilt of his USMC-issue OKC-3S bayonet/fighting knife as he thrust it upward, seeking to jam it between the other man’s ribs.

  His aim was off and the razor-sharp point instead slashed heavily across Schreiner’s side, easily slicing through his uniform tunic all the same and drawing a snarl and cry of pain as it bit into his flesh. The German landed heavily with Thorne on top of him, this time pinned by his attacker’s weight and frenzied movements and unable to simply roll away from the attack as the impact sent the P-38 flying from his grip, skittering away across the stony ground. Struggling together, he felt Thorne trying to draw his arm back for another strike with the knife and reacted purely out of self-preservation.

  With all the force he could muster, Schreiner snapped his head forward in a savage headbutt, landing a heavy blow right between the Australian’s eyes. Perfectly-timed, the manoeuvre came within a whisker of breaking Thorne’s nose and left him momentarily stunned as a sharp, numbing pain engulfed his entire face and stars flickers across his vision. With his own forehead also aching vaguely from the impact, Schreiner then followed up with an attack that was nothing less than a reaction of complete and utter atavistic instinct. He was able to drag both arms free as Thorne struggled to recover from the blow, and he lunged forward again now, clasping his hands tightly about the back of the man’s head and sinking his teeth into the side of his neck below his left ear.

  It was Thorne’s turn now to scream in agony, and he felt flesh tear from his neck as his body suddenly found the necessary extra energy to pull away from the attack. Both men scrabbled away from each other now as if by mutual agreement, although the Australian managed to strike out with his right foot in passing, landing a powerful blow to the German’s solar plexus as they drew apart. Thorne continued to howl in incoherent rage and agony as he dragged himself to cover behind the overturned GMC, knife falling to the ground forgotten as blood ran freely between the fingers of hands he held clutched to the bite wound in his neck.

  For his part, Schreiner, winded badly and himself bleeding quite badly from the knife wound to his side, was barely able to find sufficient strength to drag himself to his feet and stagger away across the rocky desert to where his pistol lay. He spat in disgust, realising there were still shreds of another man’s flesh between his clenched teeth. Blood – another man’s blood – had filled his mouth and now lay smeared all over the lower half of his face, lending him the appearance of something out of a bad horror movie as it continued to drip from his chin in long, intermittent globs.

  Through a fog of pain and mindless fury, he was consumed by just one thought alone at that moment – to finish Max Thorne once and for all. Scooping up the P-38 he quickly let the magazine fall from the butt, instantly forgotten, and inserted a full one that miraculously still lay within the holster at his belt. With a round already in the chamber, there wasn’t even any need to re-cock the weapon as he turned and began to limp back toward where the Australian still lay, pistol held outstretched before him while his left hand clutched tightly against the fire in his side.

  An ongoing desire for his own survival overrode everything in his own thoughts a second later as flashing streaks of red tracer arced in toward him out of the swirling sandstorm and chewed up the earth to his right in a spray of earth and debris. He threw himself to the ground, crying out as he landed, and only then managed to pick up the darkening shadow of an approaching tank through the whirling, dusty gloom surrounding them. Even at a distance of five hundred metres or so, it was clear that the vehicle was huge and it was undoubtedly one of the two monstrous panzers that had between them ‘single-handedly’ destroyed most of his unit.

  He very badly wanted to kill Thorne there and then but he also very much wanted to survive the encounter, something that now seemed extremely unlikely should he continue with his intended course of action. The decision made in a split-second, Hauptsturmführer Arno Schreiner used every ounce of his remaining strength to lift himself to his feet once more and make off in the opposite direction at a crouch, threading his way back between the shattered and still-burning wrecks of vehicles from both sides and using them for cover as he tried to put as much distance as
he could between himself and the behemoth tank behind him.

  Eileen was first to reach Thorne, leaping from the truck with first aid kit in hand before it had even come to a stop and running at full speed toward him with Lloyd close on her heels. As she reached his position he was propped with his back against the overturned belly of the wrecked GMC, cradling the shattered body of Arthur Morris as blood continued to run freely from a neck wound he’d made no effort to bandage or otherwise treat.

  She gasped as she drew to a halt before him, her horrified eyes moving back and forth between his injuries and those of the dying man he now held. Whose blood it was that stained both clothing and the hard earth around them was impossible to determine, and it was everywhere. The left side of Thorne’s uniform was stained dark red from shoulder to waist, while Morris’ entire torso was a sodden, crimson mess that made his actual bullet wounds invisible. Any treatment they could provide was academic and purely palliative in any case: it was quite clear to all that the man was dying as the rest of the SAS squad clustered about, a few steps to the rear.

  “He saved my life…” Thorne explained through long, low sobs as he looked up at them for the first time, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Didn’t even have a gun but he charged in anyway…”

  “Couldn’t let an officer get hurt, could I…?” Morris wheezed softly, gaining the attention of all present as flecks of blood bubbled at the corner of his lips. “What kind of sergeant would I be then…?”

  “Shut up, you silly bugger… save your strength…!” Thorne tried to order, his heart not in it as the body in his arms stiffened momentarily in agony.