Zhukov had pleaded with Kirov to get those armies out of the Caucasus, but he had refused. Zhukov had told him that Volgograd was useless from a military standpoint now, and certainly from an economic one if the last rail line into the place were ever to be cut, but that did not matter. Kirov ordered the city held, and four Soviet armies were committed there to try and stop the whirlwind German advance under General Manstein and the SS Commander Felix Steiner. They delayed it a good long while, but in the end, those SS troops broke through. Eventually, only Shumilov’s 66th and Chuikov’s 62nd were still on the line to defend the city, and there was great danger that they might soon be cut off and face annihilation.
If they die, thought Kirov, then all those years of my struggle in the south die with them. Zhukov doesn’t understand that, but there’s more at stake there than brick and mortar. It’s my roots there, the roots of the revolution itself, the symbol of the entire struggle I’ve fought with Volkov over the years. Volgograd must be held. We must not lose it. I won’t hear Volkov clucking on Radio Orenburg that he’s taken it. I won’t!
Then he remembered that day in 1908, the day the red sky came in the northeast, and the sun rose twice. He remembered Ilanskiy, and everything Fedorov had said and done there. Only this time, there was an extra twist to those memories that had never been there before. This time he remembered that last conversation with Fedorov, the look in the man’s eyes, the desperation and fear that seemed to be kindled there, and the despair. He remembered how he lunged, impulsively, to stay the other man’s hand when he put that gun to his head, one good man at his core trying to save another.
He did save Fedorov, and in more ways than he could know just then. In saving him, he also saved a good deal more. Fedorov would live, with a scar on his chin to remind him of that moment. And Fedorov would take Tyrenkov’s offer and board Abakan that night, with Troyak, and all his men—save one—Gennadi Orlov.
That was going to matter a great deal in the days ahead, for Orlov had been a stone in Fedorov’s shoe for some time. With Tyrenkov’s network to help him, Fedorov hoped he could quickly tie off that loose thread in the loom of these events, but Orlov was Orlov, and anything could happen when he was involved.
As for Troyak, he kept thinking and thinking about the things Fedorov had told him, and about that trek up the strange stairway that made truth of his assertions. They were back in 1942, or so it seemed, but Troyak was not quite the same man that began this mission. He was different. He was thinking more now, and he was remembering, and so was someone else that night.
Berzin’s own network would also pick up hints and bits of the strange doings at Ilanskiy. He came in to make his evening intelligence report to Sergei Kirov, scratching his bristly haired head.
“It looks like they found those men that went missing on Karpov’s airship,” he said, reporting the latest information he had from a man he infiltrated into Tyrenkov’s security forces.
“Did they?” said Kirov, staring out on the city of Leningrad from his office chair, lost in the darkness, for no light would burn after dark.
“It’s very strange,” said Berzin. “They were apprehended right inside that damn railway inn at Ilanskiy, up on the second floor.”
A light kindled in Kirov’s eyes, and there was just the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “And the airship? The Irkutsk?”
“It still hasn’t been found,” said Berzin. “And damn if that isn’t odd. How do you hide a thing that size? Where could it possibly be, seeing as though the men who made off with it have already been found? This Captain Symenko was once Orlov’s man. Do you think he might have defected with that ship to Orenburg?”
“No,” said Kirov. “No, I don’t think so. Don’t worry about the airship, Grishin. It is of no further concern.”
“Karpov won’t like that. He lost the Angara a few weeks back to a German airship.”
“Did he? Then send him Archangelsk. It’s just been sitting up there for months and months patrolling the Kara Sea. Winter is coming, and there won’t be much for it to see or do. I’ll want a letter delivered with it, for Karpov’s eyes only.”
“Very good sir. As you wish.”
Sergei Kirov leaned back in his chair, rocking very slowly, and raised a small glass of vodka to his lips. He would make a direct request to the Siberians, asking that if Anton Fedorov were to be found, he should be treated with utmost leniency, and respect. Then he closed his eyes, and summoned up the memory of that day, so long ago it seemed now, when he had left the bench in the depot where he spent a cold uncomfortable night, and let his curiosity get the better of him. He could still see that airship burning as it fell from the sky, the Irkutsk, as he now reckoned it to be. It was as clear in his mind as if it had happened only yesterday….
Part VI
Allies
“There is only one thing worse than fighting with allies, and that is fighting without them.”
— Winston Churchill
Chapter 16
Rommel had a taste for the clean salt spray of the sea. Turn now, he thought. You haven’t the fuel to push on east, nor do you really want to go there. Yes, you told von Thoma that you had to demonstrate that option, but it cannot be done. Now is the time, and this is the place. Turn now.
He had executed a masterful plan, luring O’Connor out of the bottleneck at El Agheila, then making a rapid turning movement towards the 2nd British forward depot at Nofilia. That was the place he really needed, for it had the fuel that would allow him to keep up the fight. Unfortunately, the British got there first, and now he knew his game was over. They would never let him take that fuel without destroying it. So it was now or never. He had to beat the British here, or with draw.
Seeing the trap he was in, O’Connor had nonetheless stopped his 50th Northumbrian Division at Wadi Hamar, knowing the Italians could not move them. Then his line bent parallel to the coast with the 4th Indian, the Free French Brigade and finally his 7th Armored, which barred the way to the vital depot. On its left, the powerful 23rd Armored Brigade was massing like a clenched mailed fist, and then the one division he had withdrawn east, his 51st Highlanders, spread out in a long defensive front, guarding the flank of Nofilia and blocking the route to the coast.
Yet by this time, Rommel had all three of his panzer divisions massed south of Nofilia, and a decision to make. His Sonderverband 288 had spent a harrowing night further east on the extreme flank scouting the way in the event Rommel decided to persist with his envelopment. Several wadis cut their way to the coast near As Sidr where a road ran south into the desert. Wadi Rigel was the southernmost tributary, which then flowed into the dry sandy bed of Wadi Matratin near the coast. That road ran parallel to the wadis, and just a few kilometers to the west.
Perfect, thought László Almásy as he reached Hill 240, right astride the road. If Rommel turns here, that wadi will screen his flank. He can push right up this road to the coast and bag the whole 8th Army. But then what will he do with it? He would have one ornery cat in the bag, and I don’t think the Afrika Korps has the strength to destroy it, or the supplies to lay siege to it. As always, Rommel was counting on pilfering the enemy depots out here, and now he’s bunched up near Nofilia. The British won’t let that go easily.
He turned and found a motorcycle runner, ordering him back to report his findings to Rommel. “Tell him the way around this flank remains open, and there’s a good road running to the coast.” The man saluted, off in a cloud of dust to try and find the elusive Rommel. It was then that things began to get difficult. Almásy had turned to head for the best armored car he had with him that night, a nice long barreled 234, and had he been just a little quicker, he would have been killed. The vehicle suddenly exploded with a thunderous roar, the turret blown completely off. It was knocked on its side, every man within immolated, and what was left of it began to burn with hot, searing fire.
Almásy had been blown off his feet, his left arm nicked by shrapnel, though he was oth
erwise of sound body. Yet the suddenness of the attack stunned he and his men. “Leutnant!” He shouted. “Where did that come from? Can you see anything?”
“Nothing sir, the ground below is completely dark. There’s no sign of enemy movement at all. It must have been artillery.”
One hell of a lucky hit if that were the case, thought Almásy. He doubted that, for he could see no reason why artillery should find them where they were… Unless the British had taken the inland track f to Ar Rijel. He knew they had posted a reserve division at Mersa Brega. Perhaps it was heading this way, and this was one of those damnable little Kampfgruppes the British would sometimes build, out in front.
He was both right and wrong in his assessment. Almásy could read a map, like any good scout, and he had correctly fingered Ar Rijel in his mind as the only likely spot a battery of artillery might be set up. Yet how would the British have spotted him in the dark? The LRDG must be out here, he reasoned, and with each passing moment, he was getting closer to the truth.
Popski, Reeves, and a company of SAS commandos were out on that flank. They had fallen back to the wadis, their mission being to screen that area, and warn O’Connor of any significant enemy movement there. Popski radioed Reeves, telling him to keep an eye on Hill 210. “It’s right on the road,” he said. “If we get visitors, they’ll likely crown it soon.” And that was exactly what Almásy had done.
Reeves saw the heat signatures on infrared, his small company then in a perfect place for a nice ambush, about 2500 meters east of the hilltop. He got on the radio to Sergeant Williams, who was riding in one of his two remaining Challengers.
“Willy, see that vehicle up on top of the hill.”
“Nice and clear,” said Williams.
“Good. Put the Charm on it.”
“My pleasure, sir.”
Reeves was referring to the Charm 3 round fired by those heavy British tanks. It was the L27 APFSDS variant, which stood for Armor Piercing Fin Stabilized Discarding Sabot. As Almásy had seen, it had a rather devastating punch, blowing clean through the target, exploding every ready round in the armored car’s turret as it did so.
Reeves smiled when he saw that fire burning on the hill, just a little payback for the loss of his number three Challenger. It still pained him that he had to put the tank down with demolition charges, and all because of a bloody landmine that had blown off the track and badly damaged a wheel. It was something the Brigade had ample resources to correct, and that tank would have been operation again in a few hours, but the Brigade was gone, and he still had no idea why.
That night he played a game of ghostly death against the German scouting patrols. He would fire, then move, and the ranges he could kill at were so far that the enemy could never really see them, let alone answer their fire. The Germans lost three of the Sturmgeschutz that had been assigned to Sonderverband 288, and they never saw what hit them.
With dawn still a few hours off, Almásy decided he had taken enough. He lost those three Sturms, two armored cars, and a supply truck. Whatever was out there, and he had an inkling as to what it was, he wanted no part of it. He gave the order for his team to withdraw back up the track towards Rommel’s presumed position, but would soon find that the British had cut him off.
As for Reeves, he soon got a message direct from O’Connor, and it was somewhat puzzling. He was ordered to withdraw immediately towards Mersa Brega, and to take any and every vehicle under his command, leaving nothing behind. Those he had lost were badly burned, and though the Challenger was sound in its main body, its innards had been wrecked by those charges.
“Withdraw to Mersa Brega immediately and await further orders,” he said to Sergeant Williams. “Maybe O’Connor is getting the jitters and thinking to pull out.”
“He wants his 300 Spartans back at Thermopylae,” said Williams, and it was a very apt metaphor. In fact, it was the news that had shaken both Wavell and O’Connor that was behind that order, and it had come from even higher up, from Churchill himself. Those few remaining tanks, and the brave men in them, all as yet unborn, were now deemed to be more precious to Great Britain than the Crown Jewels. The order came down that Reeves was to proceed immediately to Agedabia, where he would be met by a special British receiving force bearing additional fuel. He was to replenish, and then proceed across the wide desert base of Cyrenaica, to a point southeast of Tobruk near the railhead.
“Looks like we’re being called back to Brigade,” said Reeves, not knowing that the Brigade no longer existed, at least not here. As they withdrew there came the welcome sight of a British armored cars, then a column of lorried infantry. It was actually the 1st South African Division, arriving at last from Mersa Brega. There had always been a standing order to keep his Challengers out of sight as much as possible, so Reeves found a glen for them, and sent the two tanks there. He briefed the brigade commander, directed him to Popski up ahead, and then waited a few hours while the column passed. Then he was on his way again, down the long desert track leading east.
Damn if I wasn’t looking forward to kicking Rommel’s ass into Tunisia,” he said to his gunner, Corporal Holmes, now provisionally promoted to Gunnery Sergeant Holmes by Reeves himself. “Gunny, you did well on that big 90 yesterday.”
“Sixteen kills, sir.”
“And once we get back with the rest of Brigadier Kinlan’s boys, you’ll likely log a good deal more. But why the bloody hell don’t they come this way? It’s a 350 mile ride from here to Tobruk.”
“Still can’t raise anyone in Brigade,” said Holmes.
“Oh well,” said Reeves. “Orders are orders. Off we go then, and at least it will be an air conditioned ride. I’ll have plenty of time to figure what I’ll have to say to Kinlan about losing number three. He may not be too happy about the fact that I made off with that Challenger platoon in the first place.”
“What’s done is done, Lieutenant,” said Holmes. “But I’m of the same mind as you on this. Radio silence under these circumstances is bad enough, and I can’t see why Brigade is hanging back like this. We would have blasted Rommel to hell back there.”
“Now it’s back to Tobruk,” said Reeves with a shrug.
In fact, his journey was going to take him quite a bit farther than that. For far to the west, harbored in the Azores and safely away from curious eyes, the modern day replenishment fleet the British had come to call “the Funnies” also received some cryptic orders. They were to proceed around the Cape to Alexandria at once. Sixteen hours out to sea, their escort arrived, a pair of British cruisers, a pack of destroyers and one ship they at least felt familiar with, its lines unmistakable in spite of the extensive refit. It was the Argos Fire.
The mission of this little group was to get to Alexandria, and load Reeves and all his equipment on those fast Roll On / Roll off ships. The vehicles were to be distributed to as many ships as possible, and the two Challengers were to be assigned to separate vessels. The Convoy Master shook his head, not understanding the orders at first, for they had no word about anything that had happened. Churchill was taking no chances that he might lose that remaining equipment to an enemy U-Boat attack, which was one more reason the Argos Fire was sent along. That ship was the best escort ship in the Royal Navy now with her Sampson Radar sets, excellent sonar, and an air defense that was all but impervious.
It would be a very long journey, but they were all going home to the old corporate port where Elena Fairchild had once set up its company operations, at Port Erin on the Isle of Man, where the Triskelion symbol of three legs ruled the land, along with the old saying that “no matter where you throw me, I stand.” Soon there would be more going on there than the men smoking kippers. It was a nice little isolated place, with a small island off the southern tip known as the “Calf of Man,” largely uninhabited, except for a few lighthouses and the sea birds. It would soon have some very strange visitors.
* * *
Rommel had decided. He received Almásy’s message, thinking about it for
some time. His problem now was fuel, and the place Almásy was describing to him was another 30 kilometers east. He could take his tigers east if he wished, but as he did so, he would leave that 30 kilometer flank open to his north. If O’Connor called his bluff and stood his present ground, all he had to do was drive south from his defensive positions at Nofilia, and then it would be Rommel cut off, low on fuel, and with a 30 kilometer withdrawal just to get back to the fight, the fuel in his tanks that much lower.
No, he thought. They are here, the fight is right in front of me, so I turn now, this very minute. “Bayerlein! Get the word out to all panzer commanders. We turn north here!”
The Panzers turned, and there was a mighty collision with the 51st Highland Division in the center. Had it been alone, those three panzer Divisions would have punched right through to the coast. But on its right was the whole of the 23rd Armored Brigade, and on its left was the 2nd Armored Brigade and all the 1st Armored Division troops. Behind it, at Nofilia itself, O’Connor’s 7th Armored Brigade stood on defense with its infantry elements, but many of the tank battalions were still in reserve.
Most of the 15th Panzer was caught up in a battle with Briggs and his 1st Division. When 7th Panzer threatened to punch a hole to their right, the timely arrival of the 7th Motor Brigade was able to plug the gap and hold the line, the British infantry stoically defending the ground. O’Connor sent up everything he had, even the Army AA battalions, with their 40mm Bofors on portee trucks. They leveled those guns and chewed up the desert against any advance by the Panzergrenadiers. In places, the line of the Highland Division buckled, particularly when the heavy German tanks of the 501st Schwerepanzer Battalion came in, Hitler’s special gift to Rommel.
Thor's Anvil (Kirov Series Book 26) Page 14
