Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2)

by Charles S. Jackson

  “Steady, chaps,” Knowles muttered through clenched teeth over the intercom, seeking out his next target. “Target: command vehicle… APC...! Six hundred yards…! Load HEAT…!”

  Ingalls this time centred his gunsights on a Marder IFV off to the right, the multitude of antenna projecting from its roof suggesting it was most likely a high-value target.

  “On target…!”

  “HEAT loaded…!”

  “Fire…!”

  WHAM!

  The Marder all but disintegrated under the impact of the 4-inch HEAT round, little left other than a shattered shell as pieces spiralled high into the air above a huge cloud of boiling smoke and flame.

  “Sentinel One… Sentinel One… be advised; your right flank is collapsing!” Hacking’s unmistakeable voice came through over the radio in dire warning. “We’re being overrun… we’re being – !” That the transmission cut off at the same time a deep, shuddering explosion was heard to the north was clearly no coincidence.

  “The Devil with all this sitting on our arses, chaps,” Knowles declared finally, his patience gone. “No point waiting to be blasted to kingdom come… what do you say we go out and find some Jerries to kill?”

  There was a single simultaneous, enthusiastic chorus of “Yes, sah…!” from all three men within the tank, drawing a broad, toothy smile from the major.

  “Jolly good, chaps… jolly good… What ho, Rogers: forward at current heading if you please!”

  Private Rogers, the driver from Knowles own Sherman Firefly, had rather fortunately been the only other survivor of a direct artillery hit on the rear of the vehicle a few minutes earlier, and although he was bruised, shaken and suffering from several minor burns he was nevertheless well enough to assume the position as driver for Jake.

  Knowles’ crew had been one of several who’d sat in on the initial Sentinel training sessions, acting as back-up for the primary chosen crews. Rogers put his knowledge to good use now. With a thunderous revving from its diesel engine, the Sentinel burst from its pit a few seconds later in a spray of earth and exhaust fumes. It rumbled slowly forward, the commander already on the lookout for prey.

  “Target: Panther tank… five hundred yards…” Knowles advised grimly, not even pausing for breath as another enemy shell ricocheted off the side of their turret and howled away behind. The Sentinel tank carried fifty-five rounds in its turret bustle, and even though he knew well enough that it wasn’t going to be anywhere near enough to turn the tide against the coming onslaught, at the very least the crew of XFV001 Jake could exact a heavy price before they were overrun. His magazine carried fifty-five rounds, and Major Neville Knowles of 3RTR intended to make good use of every single one.

  “Push forward… push forward…!” Wittman howled into his radio, his P-4D standing motionless a few metres from the smoking ruins of a command bunker as he waited for the rest of his troop to close up. He cringed as another 76mm shell shattered against his glacis plate. His tank had taken at least six hits so far from the dug-in Shermans positioned around the approaches to the main road into Kibrit, and he and the rest of his crew knew full well it was only a matter of time before one of them ‘stuck’ or caught the Panther on a weak spot.

  “Target: Sherman tank, retreating… four hundred metres, bearing three-five-one…! Load wolfram…!”

  “On target,” his gunner advised a moment later as the rattle of the breech announced that the shell had been rammed home.

  “Loaded…!”

  “Feuer…!”

  The 88mm shell hurtled downrange, striking the Lend Lease tank just below the gun mantlet, shearing the turret off completely and spiralling it high into the air as the hull brewed up like a roman candle. A pair of Corsairs howled past low overhead at that point, rocket pods hissing as they blasted a pair of armoured vehicles toward the rear of his column.

  “Once again we’re left without the presence of our much-vaunted bloody Luftwaffe!” He snarled angrily. “Two thousand blood fighter planes in the North African Theatre of Operations and they can’t spare half a dozen of the bastards to keep these fucking Tommis off our heads!” Another thought occurred to him as he swivelled his main view port around to the south and noted a lack of movement from one of his units. “Troop Two… why are you not advancing?”

  “Taking heavy fire, Mein Herr…” the reply came through a moment later. “One of those neuer art heavy tanks intel warned us about is advancing on our position, destroying everything in its path…”

  “Scheisse…!” Wittman growled with frustration, annoyed it was too dangerous for him to open the hatch above him and survey the area properly with a set of field glasses as another flight of RAF fighter-bombers thundered past, this time a trio of older P-40 Kittyhawks armed with 500-pound bombs . “What’s your bearing to target?”

  “Five hundred metres east, Mein Herr, bearing zero-zero-eight from my position…” came the immediate reply as one of the P-40s was blown from the sky by a Wirbelwind.

  Wittman quickly calculated where that placed the enemy in relation to his own tank and scanned the clouds of smoke and dust ahead, unable to make out anything concrete in that direction.

  “Still no bloody rocket artillery either…!” He muttered angrily to himself. “We could really use some cluster munitions right now…!”

  “Panzer Leader… Panzer Leader… this is Tigri One-Three-One…” a new voice announced over the same channel in passable, Italian-accented German. “My troop is one thousand metres south-east of your position. We have been monitoring your transmissions and we have a visual on the advancing carro armato pesante…”

  “Acknowledged, Tigri One-Three-One,” Wittman responded with mild bemusement, his opinion of his Italian allies less that flattering at best. “How can we be of assistance?”

  “It is what we can do for you I think, Panzer Leader... I have visual but our weapons cannot penetrate this beast’s armour. Your guns can hurt it – possibly – but I suspect you cannot see it yet from your position due to the prevailing conditions. I suggest if you were to advance another two to three hundred metres south-east you would have a clear line of sight to engage…”

  “A fine idea, Tigri,” Wittman responded drily, “but I wonder how many of my tanks will be left intact by this time…”

  “This is where we come in, Herr Wittman…” the Italian replied, using the tank commander’s name for the first time. “Your reputation precedes you, signore. Tenente Luigi Pascucci at your service, and it would be my honour to draw their fire in order to allow you to close range…”

  There was a moment’s pause as Wittman’s mind digested exactly what the Italian had just said.

  “You do understand you’d be committing suicide?”

  “This bastardo wiped out my entire troop, signore… I’m willing to do anything to see this thing destroyed.”

  “Very well, tenente… I gratefully accept your offer.”

  “Advancing now, signore: good luck…! Tigri One-Three-One out…!”

  “Let’s go, i miei amici…” Pascucci called over his unit radio link as the Semovente surged forward over a slight rise and down the other side toward the distant Sentinel “…do you think you’ll live forever?” The rest of his troop followed immediately, opening up their formation into a broad line abreast to present a less concentrated target.

  “Ready to fire, signore,” Enzo announced a moment later as the loader slammed an armour-piercing shell into the breech.

  “All stop, Gino,” Pascucci called out, the M40L sliding abruptly to a halt as he focussed his main scope on the huge, slow-moving tank ahead. Forty metres away, another of his troop also slewed to a complete halt in prepaqration for firing.

  “Six hundred metres… heavy tank…” Pascucci announced slowly, everyone in the vehicle already well aware what their target was.

  “Target acquired, signore,” Enzo replied immediately.

  “Fuoco…!

  WHAM… WHAM…!

  Two 90mm
steel-cored shells hurtled away downrange almost simultaneously in twin clouds of flame, the red tracer in each round’s base sparkling like a tiny star as they arced across the intervening distance between the two Semoventes and the Sentinel. Both were close misses, bracketing the trundling tank fore and aft and throwing up twin sprays of earth and dust upon impact, and almost immediately, the Sentinel’s huge, flat turret began to rotate inexorably in their direction.

  “Miss… reload!” Pascucci barked, knowing they were already in trouble and adding: “Siamo nella merda…!” under his breath.

  Fifty-calibre tracer rounds began bouncing off the sloped front glacis of the motionless Semovente to their left; firing at 600m was one thing when stationery, but Ingalls had no interest in wasting ammunition needlessly while firing on the move. A huge gout of flame and smoke burst from the Sentinel’s muzzle and, almost instantaneously, the nearby tank destroyer blew violently apart under the impact of a 105mm HEAT round. At the same time, the two remaining Semovente in his troop – now some distance ahead – also stopped sharply and took aim.

  “Figlio di puttana…! Fire… fire…!” Pascucci snarled in fear, desperately wanting to at least deal this incredible tank at least some damage before it blew them all to pieces.

  WHAM…! Their next round hurtled away, followed a second or two later by fire from the other two remaining tank destroyers. It was impossible to tell which as earth fountained up around the Sentinel but one round at least this time struck the tank, catching it low on the rear corner and blowing out a track. It slid sideways and stopped dead, no longer able to move at all as the remains of its left track piled up behind it on the stony ground.

  The Sentinel fired again and another of another of Pascucci’s Semovente disintegrated under the impact of a huge shaped-charge shell, pieces spraying all over the general area as a cloud of red/black smoke rolled skyward.

  “If you’re going to do something, Herr Wittman, I suggest you do it now…” he shouted desperately over the radio as they reloaded once more. “Another minute and I’ll have no more bait left to tease him with!”

  “On our way, tenente…” Wittman’s reply was almost immediate. “Target in sight… engaging now…!”

  A spray of dirt and smoke literally erupted all around the Sentinel as an entire troop of Panther-Ds fired in unison from the opposite direction. Only one hit, and that struck only a glancing blow against the tank’s slab-like hull, but the fire from a new direction at least got the attention of the crew within, drawing fire away from a very relieved Pascucci as the huge turret began to turn back toward the north.

  “Last hurrah, gents… let’s make ‘em work for it!” Knowles crowed with all the gallantry he could muster, heart sinking as his viewport took in the sight of no less than six Panthers approaching in line abreast.

  “Target: Panther tank on bearing one-zero-three… three hundred yards… load sabot!”

  “On target…!”

  “Sabot loaded…!”

  “Fire…!”

  The tank on the very western end of the line exploded in a spray of smoke and sparks as a 40mm tungsten dart punched through its turret ring and detonated the shells stored within. The turret ‘jack-in-the-boxed’ spectacularly as fire poured from every opening and the ammunition for the machine guns began to cook off, adding their own sparkling addition to the raging inferno.

  “Fire…!”

  “Feuer…!”

  “Fuoco…!”

  All three opposing groups fired again in unison, with the next Panther in line hit low on the forward hull by another sabot round and brought to an immediate halt. Two of the crew managed to bail out as smoke poured from the hatches.

  In return, three shells struck the Sentinel. One – an 88mm tungsten-cored AP round – punched through the comparatively thinner armour of its rear hull, shattering the Cummins diesel inside in the process. A second 88mm shell struck the forward road wheels on the right side, destroying the tank’s tracks on that side also at the same time that a 90mm HEAT round fired from a Semovente hit the left side of the hull just forward of the turret. A molten jet of superheated copper formed within the warhead upon detonation and finally managed to punch a small hole through the steel plate, killing Rogers, instantly and filling the interior with smoke and noxious fumes.

  “It’s been a pleasure, chaps,” Knowles declared, coughing as he identified one last target. “Fire…!”

  “Mein Gott, this thing is incredible…!” Wittman breathed softly, watching another of his tanks brew up as his own crew reloaded and the Sentinel continued to be hit by round after round. It was standard German practice to continue firing on any enemy tank until it was a burning hulk, and the company commander had no intention of making an exception for this behemoth.

  “Wolfram loaded!” His loader called a second later.

  “Feuer…!”

  WHAM…!

  “Hit…!”

  “Loaded…!”

  “Feuer…!”

  WHAM…!

  “Hit…!”

  “Loaded…!”

  “Feuer…!”

  WHAM…!

  “Hit…!”

  The six remaining Panthers and Semovente continued to fire on the stricken Sentinel for more than a minute despite the fact that it had ceased firing back and that smoke was now pouring from every opening. Rising from his own hatch, Wittman lifted a pair of binoculars to his eyes and stared at the burning tank for a long time.

  Just one tank… he thought darkly, momentarily lowering the field glassed and turning his head to either side to survey the havoc the Sentinel had wrought upon his troop. Just one tank did all this…! Just ten of these might’ve stalled the entire advance! He paused as another, far more sinister thought occurred to him. …And if they’d had a hundred to throw at us…?

  The earth shook as a powerful explosion detonated some distance away to the north-east beyond the haze. He turned in that direction, not really expecting to see anything, but was surprised to note that he could actually make out the shape of a huge, mushroom-like cloud of smoke rising above the dust and smoke. He couldn’t begin to guess what could’ve created such a blast, but it was clear that whatever it had been was truly gigantic.

  At that moment he also caught a fleeting glimpse of something else through the surrounding fog of war… the fleeting silhouette of a transport aircraft that seemed small because of distance but was nevertheless clearly huge in comparison to the background behind it. He knew instinctively that he was watching the escape of the aircraft they’d been sent to intercept but that all seemed so insignificant now in the face of what they’d just experienced.

  He turned his gaze back to the burning Sentinel and a shudder rippled through him. With a silent show of respect and recognition, he raised his right hand in a textbook army salute in honour of the dead tank’s valiant crew before lowering himself back down inside his own vehicle and getting on with the advance to Kibrit.

  The J-15 Schwalbe of 3/JG27 hurtled eastward through the clear, blue sky at close to top speed, the dust and explosions of combat on the ground below seeming to be little more than the frenzied activity of ants from an altitude of twenty thousand feet. Marseille and Pöttgen led the entire staffel onward; twelve aircraft in three ‘finger-four’ schwarm formations. Ground battles were of no interest to the pilots of JG27: their aircraft were designed for air superiority, pure and simple, and their mission was to seek out and destroy enemy aircraft, a purpose for which the S-15A was superbly capable.

  Their mission at that particular moment was a ‘freie jagd’ fighter sweep of the airspace over Kibrit with specific attention to be paid to any large transport aircraft to be found there, either on the ground or attempting to take off. Headquarters had advised that an enemy officer of great importance was believed to be on site at the base, and every effort was to be made to ensure he was not allowed to leave.

  “Even their Mustangs cannot touch us, Mein Herr,” one of the pilots observed smugl
y, turning his head to the left as they swept past, well above a squadron of RAF fighters that were struggling to altitude and in no hope of matching the jets’ impossible speed. “They’ll never see us coming…!”

  “No one ever sees him coming…” another pilot chimed in with a chuckle, drawing a grin from Marseille as he made reference to the man’s predilection for mounting attacks from extremely unorthodox angles using difficult, high-deflection shooting.

  “Just like that so-called ‘woman’ you were kissing in Cairo last week, Paul?” Another shot back, raising a broader laugh from all around.

  “Watch the chatter, boys…!” Marseille advised with a thin smile, cutting off the frivolity. “This isn’t the Officers’ Mess: you’re on a combat mission! None of us are invulnerable, and you know it! Keep your wits about you – they still have flak to throw at us!”

  “Jawohl, Mein Herr!” Several pilots chorused in unison, suitably chastened.

  “Target, two o’clock low!” Pöttgen called a warning a moment later, having spent his time ignoring the idle banter and instead keeping an eye out for their objective. “Large transport aircraft taking off from Kibrit…!”

  It was possible to see a great distance from such heights, and all could see quite clearly the Kibrit runway ahead through the haze of dust and smoke of battle. That they could also pick out the small, arrow-like wings of an aircraft heading north at low level was a testament to how large that aircraft must have been.

  “Mein Gott, look at that big bastard, Rainer…!” Marseille exclaimed as realisation kicked in. “No wonder they wanted it destroyed – I’ve never – !”

  He was cut off at that point as flak suddenly exploded all around them, fired from weapons sited below at Kibrit. With range and elevation monitored by radar, the battery of US-made 90mm anti-aircraft guns homed in on the flight of jets with uncanny accuracy with gun-laying controlled by analogue computer.