Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2)

by Charles S. Jackson

  “Oh, my Lord…” he breathed, his insides turning to ice as the reality of it set in.

  “He ordered me to take off as soon as loading was complete, whether they were back or not…” Evan added with some anger, well aware of how the pilot was likely to react.

  “What a load of… of…” Trumbull began, stammering as his indignance battled with his inherent aversion to the use of foul language “…a load of bollocks…!” He declared finally, the rather tame expletive nevertheless quite shocking to Lloyd when heard uttered from the Englishman’s lips.

  “I seem to recall him giving us similar orders at Scapa Flow, while he was down south in Kent,” Lloyd observed quietly, a hint of deviousness creeping into his tone as they both recalled events of two years before.

  “I seem to recall those orders being completely ignored…” Trumbull replied with a wry smile of his own. “I do believe everything worked out just fine on that occasion…” They were interrupted in that moment as a fifth missile landed off to the north-west, distant but still close enough to require a moment’s pause.

  “That being said,” the pilot continued with a renewed sense of urgency, “I do believe it might still be in everyone’s best interests if we get that ‘Old Girl’ loaded and ready for take off!”

  “I’m on it!” Lloyd nodded, ignoring the headache forming across his frontal lobe and immediately turning his attention back to the wounded being unloaded from his damaged truck.

  Almaza Airfield

  13km east of Cairo, Egypt

  SG2 Immelman hadn’t been able to get in at their normal airfield due to visibility restrictions created by the coming of the storm. Instead they’d been redirected to Almaza, outside Cairo, where conditions, while marginal at best, had nevertheless been markedly better. They’d spend the rest of the time there waiting impatiently for some break in the weather that might allow them back into the air, surrounded by dozens of pilots from other units desperately hoping for the same thing.

  Ground crews of course escaped none of their usual hard work. With pilots and aircrew left at a loose end – it was inadvisable to run engines in such conditions, jet engines particularly – there was nothing preventing the refuelling and rearming of aircraft, although the howling winds and stinging sand made onerous tasks of something that was hard work to begin with.

  All that had changed however the moment the storm had lifted sufficiently for the ‘all clear’ siren to be heard right across the airfield. Eager young men poured from barracks buildings immediately and began running for their aircraft at full speed, already briefed and prepared for the missions they’d undertake once airborne. Even as they drew near their craft, those same, hard-working ground crews were already cranking engines over and filling the air with the raucous cacophony of spluttering V-12s and the shrieking whine of spooling turbines.

  It was a desperate race now as they strapped themselves into their seats, something of which Meier and Rudel were both acutely aware. The S-15’s engines were a generation ahead of the smaller, trouble-plagued original jet prototypes of the late 1930s but they were nevertheless fragile and at times temperamental and needed to be cared for well. The dangers of sand ingestion had already been encountered during the Luftwaffe’s operations thus far in North Africa – at times with rather terminal results – and the pilots of SG2 were thus forced to spend more precious minutes stuck on the ground as they waited for the twin turbines buried in each aircraft’s wing roots to warm up. That they were also forced to sit and watch their slower but more reliable piston-engined brethren pour into the skies ahead of them in a seemingly endless stream did nothing to alleviate their general levels of frustration.

  It was really only minutes later that the aircraft of SG2 lifted from the runway at Almaza in tight pairs and thundered skyward, desperately seeking altitude as they formed up into clusters of ‘finger-four’ groups. Within another moment or two they were quickly passed by the faster J-16A Schwalbe of 3./JG27, Marseille and Pöttgen leading the rest of the unit in a long, single echelon left formation. Kibrit was roughly ten minutes’ flying time from Almaza, and although the jets had been the last to take off, the far superior speed of both models would see them overtake their piston-engined brethren not long before they reached their destination.

  The short distance was such that external fuel was not required save for the 350 litres carried in each fixed wingtip tank. Instead, the two inboard wing pylons each carried a large gunpod mounting a twin-barrelled 23mm cannon and 200 rounds of ammunition while the aircraft’s four outboard stores hardpoints each carried a pair of streamlined launchers fitted with folding-fin R6M rockets. ‘Ripple-fired’ and carrying a mix of armour-piercing and high-explosive warheads, the 19-tube pods were a useful addition to the powerful 88mm recoilless weapon beneath the Libelle’s centreline which remained its primary armament.

  Wittman’s tanks reached the abandoned ruins and palm groves without any land-based opposition whatsoever and pushed on through, ignoring sporadic artillery fire that seemed to have dropped off dramatically in the last few minutes. There had been several aerial attacks from Allied fighter-bombers but most had been beaten off without significant loss.

  A trio of Wirbelwind flank moved up from the rear of the column had savaged the attackers, downing five Hawker Sea Furies and three bent-winged Vought Corsairs with their lethal, radar-assisted cannon and sending the rest heading for cover. They’d lost two light tanks and some infantry carriers, but casualties were light for all that and certainly weren’t any hindrance to the advance as they pushed on.

  Streams of fleeing refugees, all stricken with a complete and utter hysteria, greeted the column as it pushed through the palm groves and out into open, flat desert once more. The remnants of the crowds had all been part of a larger group that had arrived at Kibrit’s main gates in a relatively orderly fashion, having trudged slowly along the hard earth of the main road in. The whole time, the stream of lost civilians had been kept to the line of the road by long coils of barbed wire on either side, upon which had been affixed large signs painted with a large skull & crossbones and declaring in English, German and Arabic:

  Warning: mines!

  Achtung: minen!

  !تحذير اللغم

  The first two lines were carefully stencilled in thick black paint against the white background of the sign while the Arabic lettering appeared to have been scrawled in later with a hand-held paint brush with little care or attention paid with regard to neatness or correct Arabic grammar. The minefields stretched off in each direction, clearly marked with warnings at regular intervals as a deterrent for all to see.

  In their wild retreat from the gates in the aftermath of the massacre and subsequent missile strike, the survivors paid no heed whatsoever to the warnings and several were subsequently blown to pieces as they ran across anti-personnel mines buried beneath the surface. Others continued on regardless, and with most of the hidden weapons quite widely dispersed, many managed to make their way right through the danger zones without further incident.

  The towering clouds of smoke from the first missile strike was clearly visible, hanging above the heat haze, but neither Wittman nor any of the others in the assault knew anything of German ballistic missiles and most simply assumed the explosion had been from an Allied ammunition store or something of similar significance.

  “Look at how many are getting through, Mein Herr!” Merkel onbserved over the unit intercom as they drew to a halt at the edge of the minefields and wailing, wounded Egyptians blundered between them, stumbling on in the opposite direction. “This is the best minefield the Tommis could manage? We could take the entire Afrika Korps through gaps like that!” There was a hint of derision in his superior tone as he brazenly lifted the top hatch of his Panther-D and raised his head out into the open air.

  “Don’t be so sure, Emil,” Wittman countered with a grim smile. “Those fields are there to slow us down, not to catch us by surprise. Certainly there are gaps in thei
r defences, but those poor bastards aren’t heavy enough to set off anti-tank minen. There’s no way of telling how many are in there, so… we run the risk of losing a sizeable number of our units or we run the gauntlet right down that road in little better than single file, ripe for the picking for every pak-kanone and feldhaubitze the Tommis have within range.”

  “So… so we’re going to just waltz right on down the road there like good little boys then?” Merkel didn’t expect an affirmative answer to that leading question than anyone else listening in over the open channel.

  “Hardly, kamerad,” Wittman responded, stifling a chuckle. “We do something unexpected instead and bring up the Muräne…” Opening up a radio channel back to headquarters, he immediately called in another fire mission for the Italian artillery moving up from the south. Within a moment or two, smoke shells began popping along the base’s fence line, three thousand metres east of their position. In a few moments the LSSAH would be able to call up their remaining Brumbär assault guns and once more use their special equipment to penetrate the Allied minefields.

  The entire area had both the look and smell of a charnel house. Beneath the semi-dark pall of floating smoke and dust, blood and gore seemed to have coated the earth itself in every direction. Lumps of torn, ruined flesh that had once been human beings lay scattered about like a child’s discarded toys. Much of it was unrecognisable, torn to pieces by the sheer force of the terrible blast wave, but here and there also lay the signs of the massacre that had been going on before the explosion. Sections of heads, torsos and shattered limbs ripped by gunfire also lay amid the rest of it, a sad indictment of the loss of control on both sides.

  The earth shook now and then as more of the huge explosions boomed in the distance, but direction was difficult to determine within the haze of smoke that permeated the entire area. Winds that had been strong and gusting earlier had settled almost into non-existence now as the grey/black cloak settled all around. There was the sound of guns firing too, now, although they too were at a distance, and also the occasional howl of aircraft overhead.

  Groggy and concussed, Eileen nevertheless forced herself onward as she staggered backward along the main road from the gates, dragging Davids’ limp body by the shoulders. Her face, bare shoulders and arms were blackened by dust and smoke that caked to her as it mixed with trickles of blood that oozed from the dozens of minor cuts and abrasions left in her exposed skin by debris and shrapnel thrown up by the blast. She had no idea as to how long she’d been passed out, but she suspected that it had only been a matter of minutes judging by the amount of smoke and dust still floating in the air around.

  Eileen had no idea what was wrong with Davids…apart from the obvious. Still unconscious, he’d not responded to any attempt to rouse him, nor did being dragged elicit any response either regarding awareness or pain as a result of his injuries. Blood trickled from one corner of his mouth, running down to stain the collar of his tank suit in an ever-spreading moist, dark stain while a similar trail of crimson ran from the opposite ear and around the back of his neck. Blood and filth also covered his face and arms; having sheltered Donelson from the worst of the shockwave, he’d suffered far more cuts and abrasions from shrapnel damage.

  Yet none of that was even close to the worst. As she struggled to drag Davids away from the carnage surrounding them, there was no great difficulty tracking their progress as their every movement left thin trails of blood seeping into the dry earth. Both the man’s legs had been taken off below the knee, an amputation of quite remarkable precision by some errant piece of flying shrapnel that had come scything past at the head of the shockwave.

  She’d done the best she could in tending to the terrible wounds. Her blouse had given up both sleeves to the shoulder for use as makeshift tourniquets, tied tightly about what was left of Davids’ right calf. Her belt had performed the same duty on his other leg while the rest of her blouse had been sacrificed as rough-and-ready shell dressings covering the torn and bloody stumps that were all that remained of his lower legs. That she was left with just a crop-top style white sports bra covering her upper body, now as filthy as the rest of her clothing, seemed the least of her concerns at that point in time.

  “Help…! Please…!” She called out hoarsely, her voice to dry and weak to be heard over the general din of distant battle. “Help me…!”

  The radio she’d worn at her belt before the impact lay somewhere back behind her, discarded the moment she’d discovered the microphone cable had been torn from its socket by the force of the explosion, taking vital internal components with it and rendering the device completely useless.

  They were found a moment or two later in any case by Knowles, Hacking and two of Jake’s crew, Ingalls and Connolly, both of whom had set out in search of their missing commander the moment the initial shockwave of the blast had cleared.

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph…!” The Scotsman breathed in a shocked whisper, horror on all their faces as Donelson collapsed into his arms the moment the two groups were close enough. “Mary, Mother of God…!”

  “Just hold on to the captain there, Angus,” Knowles assured in a cracked voice, trying desperately to sound courageous and failing dismally as he and Ingalls struggled to lift Davids’ unconscious body between them. “Just take care of her there, Old Chap and everything – oh, Jesus, Lord! – everything will be all right…”

  The sixth missile struck – U-1404’s third – landing somewhere off to the south-east. The point of impact was completely obscured by the general haze of floating smoke and dust in the area, but it was nevertheless close enough to shake the earth heavily beneath their feet and buffet them with the heat of the blast a few moments later. The distant roar of the explosion caused Donelson to start, crying out in fear as she hunched over, shielding her head with both arms.

  “It’s all right, Ma’am,” Hacking assured softly, assisting Connolly as they gently lifted her upright once more, moaning and sobbing incoherently. “It’ll be all right, now…” Without a second thought, he stripped the shirt from his own back and helped her slip her arms into the sleeves, lifting the rest of it over her shoulders in protection of her modesty. Hacking was a relatively tall man and surprisingly fit for a man of his somewhat humble demeanour, his shirt hanging off her upper body like a small tent.

  “Let’s get them back to the bunker, chaps, all right?” He added with similar gentleness, slipping one of Eileen’s arms across his shoulders as Connolly took the other.

  “He’s not going to last ten minutes if we don’t get him some help, sir,” Ingalls protested, the remark aimed pointedly at Knowles as they carried his unconscious commanding officer. The man was deathly white, his breathing shallow and erratic, and a trail of blood from his amputated legs was already staining Knowles clothing where they rested against either side of his waist.

  “We’ll call for help from the bunker, lance-corporal,” Knowles assured, nodding in earnest recognition of the dire situation. “It’s the best we can do at the moment, I’m afraid. Once we’re there, we’ll get the captain some aid, I promise you, but after that we’ll need you back at your tank: those bloody Jerries aren’t going to give us any quarter.”

  “I know, sir…” Ingalls replied, close to tears himself as his mind fought against the realisation that his friend and commander was almost certainly about to die and there was nothing he could do about it.

  They’d moved perhaps another five metres when a jeep appeared out of the haze, hurtling along the main road at high speed with just Thorne behind the wheel. With a howled, profane curse of surprise and shock at their sudden appearance, he slammed on the brakes and wrenched the wheel around, slewing the little 4WD to one side and almost lifting two wheels off the ground in the process.

  He was out of the vehicle and running toward them by the time the spray of dust and stones had settled, desperation clear on his face and in his eyes as he took in to condition of both Donelson and Davids.

  “Oh, fuck me
…! Oh, Jesus Christ…!”

  “Captain Donelson’s going to be all right, sir,” Hacking advised quickly, noting the quaver in the man’s voice, “but Captain Davids most definitely isn’t unless we get him to proper care immediately!”

  “Get him in the back of the jeep,” Thorne responded in an instant, forcing his personal concerns into the background for a moment. “I’ll have him on a plane in five minutes.” He extended an arm and slipped it around Eileen’s waist, taking her weight and allowing Connolly to in turn assist with Davids. “Come on, kid…” he whispered softly, pleadingly. “You’re gonna be okay… let’s get you sitting down…”

  She reacted immediately to the sound of his voice, forcing herself back to something resembling consciousness and lifting her head enough to look into his eyes.

  “Jimmy… he’s hurt… he needs help…” She croaked softly, resting her head against his they sagged together for a moment. “He saved my life…”

  “I know, Hon, I know…” He assured, leading her slowly toward the passenger side of the jeep. “It’s okay… we’ve got him…”

  “He’s lost an awful lot o’ blood, sir,” Connolly pointed out as Knowles and Ingalls laid the wounded man’s body into the rear of the jeep as carefully as they were able. Although he understood the words were purely to calm Donelson, his instincts still railed at the suggestion that anything about Davids’ condition was ‘okay’.

  “I know, Angus,” Thorne nodded in acknowledgement as he guided Eileen into the seat and fastened the lap belt around her waist. “We’ve got medics on the plane and we’ve got supplies of plasma…” he took a moment to really look at Davids’ ruined body the first time, barely managing to keep a pessimistic grimace from his face in deference to the man’s crew. “It’s not going to be enough on its own, but we’ll be landed in Iraq in ninety minutes and they’ll have a proper hospital there.” He tried for as hopeful an expression as he could manage under the circumstances. “I know it’s not much, but it’s the best hope we’ve got right now…”