Out in front of the 88 batteries were the hardened troops of the machinegun battalions, ready to cut down any infantry that might be moving in support, though the British seldom used combined arms at this stage of the war. They massed their tank formations and used them like armored cavalry, bold dragoons in the desert, charging against the enemy line.
Streich was out on Hill 222 with a light 37mm flak battery posted to defend a small section of three 150mm howitzers. He slid his sand goggles up onto his forehead and raised his field glasses, frowning when he saw the dust being kicked up by the enemy armored vehicles, perhaps ten to twelve kilometers distant. He shook his head. The fools, he thought. They’re late! They should have hit us just before sunrise when all that rosy red dust would not be visible. It’s a miracle I was able to get my Kampfgruppen re-established on this line but, now that we’re here, the British will pay the piper!
He called back to the main artillery group. Well behind him and set up to provide suppressive fires that he would be calling in. If the British were planning one of their little tank charges, they’ll get a dose of that artillery first, he thought. Then the 88s will settle the matter, and I’ll order my tanks to swing left and hit their flank. This should be over in an hour.
There was a long, thin desert track that ran to the left of a sinuous wadi that rooted its way down from the hill he was on. That would serve as a nice anti-tank ditch for anything they send up that road, and it was well covered by another hill designated 198, where four 88s had been positioned. So they’ll have to move to their right, away from that wadi, under fire from my 88s the whole time. He smiled. All these years in Egypt and the British still couldn’t read a map! There was no way they could push armor up that road and live to tell about it. The wadi funneled the track toward an old dry well site called Qabr el Shubaki on his map, and a crumbled stone tomb marked the place. His men had scouted it the previous evening when he first got the order to re-deploy here from that irascible braggart, Rommel.
To the left of the tomb from his perspective, there was a sharp rise that pointed directly at his position. That would hinder tank movement in that direction as well. They’ll have to flow around either side if it, and won’t be able to support one another as they do so. Once they do flow around it, they’ll be right in front of my infantry position, nice stony ground that will slow them down about 1500 meters out.
The sound of vehicles came to him on the cool morning air now, a faint, distant rumble that was growing in strength and power with each passing moment. They’re coming, he thought, looking at his watch. Another ten minutes and we should be able to make out the lead vehicles.
“Pass the word to the artillery,” he said to the Leutnant commanding the small battery he had posted here. “Your guns start the show. In ten minutes I want you to start spotting rounds on either side of that ridge. See? The main battalions will fire for effect on my command.”
They were coming.
Tanks.
Other vehicles were behind them, but nothing that he had seen the British use before. What are they? Matildas? He could not quite see in the dust and ruddy red light of the dawn. They were moving fast… too fast for Matildas, but too big to be anything else.
He looked at his watch again.
* * *
The leading tanks of 3rd Sabre, Scotts Dragoon Guards, 15 Challenger IIs, had been ordered to move ahead when Reeves reported his long range imaging had identified a considerable force ahead, many gun positions, in a line stretching several kilometers!
It had to be the bloody Egyptian Army this time, thought 1st Lieutenant William Bowers in the lead Challenger II, and he made his report… But with German mercenaries fighting with them? How did they know we would be making this march to Mersa Matruh? How could they have found us here, and deployed like this so efficiently? It wasn’t like the Egyptian Army at all. They had not shown this kind of aggressive pluck for many months.
Then the uncomfortable alternative he had been avoiding asserted itself. He had been in on the briefing with General Kinlan, yet found it all too much to swallow. Now Reeves was reporting gun emplacements, infantry, even artillery setting up for a fight. What if these weren’t mercenaries, he thought? What if they’re the real thing?
He decided to try and get more confirmation, got on the radio, and keyed Reeves call sign. “Sabre One to Royal Lance. Do you copy? Over.”
“Royal Lance here. Copy your signal Sabre One.”
“What’s the story on that position out there Johnny? Have we got rag heads, rabble, or the Kaiser’s brood?”
“Wrong war, Bill,” Reeves familiar voice returned. “You’re looking at 88 millimeter AT guns on your left, good infantry screen. Better let the RHA in on this one before you lead in the Mercian Battalion. That 88 is not anything to trifle with.”
“Didn’t know the bloody Egyptian Army was using those,” said Bowers, fishing. There was a long pause, then Reeves came back again.
“Didn’t expect that either,” he said. “But seeing is believing. You heard what the General said same as I did. Let’s leave it at that.”
“Good enough Johnny. Bowers out.”
Well, let’s see what they want to do when I move my Sabre up. If they have these guns they will be dug in to either side of that hill. I’d better call for the RHA to shake things up first like Reeves says. But after that I think my Challengers can fill out the dance card easily enough. That wadi is a nice little obstacle on my left. It funnels the attack right at the base of that hill. Once I get round that, those AT guns will have a good field of fire at us. Then again, I’ll have the same, and I can move and fire on the go. So let’s drop a few rounds to see what happens. The last thing those fellows out there expect is for me to come gunning up the side of that wadi—so that is exactly what I’m going to do!
He tapped his driver’s shoulder to stop his Sabre, and put in a call for three rounds of artillery, warning fire. Usually that had been enough to send any irregular force scrambling for their SUVs and hi-tailing it into the desert, and he watched as the first 155s came in, deliberately short, right in front of the hill… one… two… three…
The Desert Rats had just thrown their hat into the ring, and Bowers waited, watching his optics screen closely for signs of retrograde movement that he expected. What he got instead was somewhat of a surprise. The enemy, whoever they were out there, answered those opening three rounds with three of their own, right across that sharp ridge that pointed at the enemy position. Streich and his three 150s had answered the challenge.
He got on the radio and reported to Kinlan at Brigade HQ as ordered. “Sir,” he said, the surprise evident in his voice. “They’re answering with artillery.”
“Very well, Lieutenant. Hold your position. The RHA will be clearing its throat in another minute. Standby.”
Well to the rear, the self-propelled guns of the Royal Horse Artillery were about to increase the tempo and send in a full salvo. Bowers was attached to lead in the Mercian Battalion on this flank, and they had sixteen AS-90s in support. The fireworks were about to begin.
Part VI
Lessons of War
“Experience is a hard teacher because she gives the test first,
the lesson afterward.”
― Vernon Law
Chapter 16
Aboard Argos Fire Captain MacRae noted the initial Russian attack with some interest. Their IFF coding, received from the Russian technicians, was enough to tell him what they had fired.
“Four of their P-900s,” he said to Dean, “The same damn missiles that put Princess Irene under the Black Sea.”
In spite of their newly forged pact with the Russians, he still harbored some resentment and bitterness over that attack. He knew his tankers were fair maritime targets, and that the war was firing up in all the world’s key energy centers. They knew the risks when they first pointed their bows north to the Bosphorus. The Black Sea had been a Russian lake for decades. He expected opposition, and was not
surprised when it came on the missiles that struck Princess Irene, but that didn’t make things any easier.
Is that why you said nothing of your Aster-30 missiles, he asked himself. This Grand Alliance we’ve put together here will take some getting used to. The Russian Admiral seemed accommodating, a fair man, but the business end of his battlecruiser was just as deadly as ever. Dean soon informed him that the Russians had scored four hits.
“Batting 1000,” he said. “Well let’s see if we can do the same.” By agreement they had decided to each commit four missiles to the initial barrage, with the Russians beginning. “Now we’ll show them what our Gealbhans can do. Let the sparrows fly, ladies and gentlemen. Four missiles, just like our Russian friends.”
The GB-7 was a new design, produced by Fairchild’s company, and meant to be an upgrade to the British Sea Eagle missile. It was a hypersonic sea skimmer much like the deadly Russian Sunburn missile, and it put the fire into the ship’s name to be sure. The missiles deployed from vertical silos that emerged when the covering deck panels opened like two large trap doors. Then the missiles fired, one canister of four, leaving MacRae another 20 missiles under the forward deck. He would have had more, but expended a number of missiles during the fighting in the Black Sea.
The results would be much the same. All the missiles found targets, with a hit on each of the three leading battleships, and one on the heavy cruiser Pola, which had taken up a position forward of Conte Cavour. Argos Fire was also batting a thousand, in a numbers game that was to be particularly one sided. The Italians saw the missiles coming, but this time no one with eyes could believe they were planes. This was something else, and rumors spread through the Italian fleet as fast as the fire was spreading through Conte Cavour. The battleship lost several boilers when secondary explosions below decks stoked the burning coals. The third hit by a Mach 3 missile blasting into her superstructure had given the ship a hard shudder, and it was steering off the line, speed falling off and in no condition to serve in the vanguard of the fleet.
MacRae waited, as per previous arrangement. They wanted to see if the Italians would still have the stomach for a fight after taking eight hits from an enemy no man among them had even laid eyes on.
* * *
Aboard Littorio, Admiral Iachino watched with growing dismay. Those were not British planes. Every report he was now receiving was describing the attackers as a kind of lightning quick rocket weapon. His lead battleship division had taken a fearful pounding, but there was no sign of any enemy ship on his horizon. How could the British have such weapons, and how could they see his fleet to even use them?
Now he dimly recalled the odd rumors of the German engagement in the north above Iceland. He had heard something about naval rocketry, but had given it little mind. Could this be what he was facing here? What else? The Greeks were certainly not out there shooting these amazing new weapons at his battleships. The question now was what could he do about it?
Iachino signaled Bergamini aboard Cailo Duilio for a status report. The ship was fighting bad fires in several places, but the encouraging report was that none of the magazines had been threatened, at least not yet, and all her guns were unharmed. He learned the same from the Captain of the Andrea Doria, which had only taken one hit, on the starboard side aft of the two stacks, and very near the secondary mast. The gun directors there had taken some damage, but the main turret was unharmed.
So we still have all our guns, thought Iachino, making a fateful decision. He considered waiting. He could report this attack to the other Axis fleets and see what they advised, but Italy had been bailed out of one action after another in the war, and hounded by the British in damn near every engagement. They’ve chased us out of the Horn of Africa, and destroyed the Tenth Army in Egypt and Libya, but not here. There’s nothing wrong with our guns, if these rockets can find us, then the enemy must be very close. Perhaps they are using a submarine to spot for these new weapons. We shall see.
He gave the order to increase to battle speed, in spite of a protest from Bergamini, who claimed it would make it much more difficult to control his fires. But Iachino persisted, determined to get the enemy out there under his guns. As soon as we darken their horizon, I’ll show them what my 15-inch guns can do.
Or so he thought….
* * *
Admiral Volsky had to decide what to do. He still had 28 SSMs, but this was only his first major engagement here. How long might this war go on? He knew the answer to that even as he posed the question. Italy would fight until Sicily was invaded and occupied in mid-1943, more than two long years away. Those 28 missiles represented overwhelming power at this moment. If he had followed common Russian Naval doctrine, he would have sent in a barrage of at least twenty SSMs, putting serious damage on an equal number of ships.
That would break them, he thought, and then all I have to do is live with all those dead souls out there, and hope my last eight missiles will get me safely through this war. Kirov would still be a threat, but a fast burning one after a salvo of that magnitude. Then what would we be once those last teeth were pulled—a toothless shark on the high seas, with little more than a bad reputation to throw at the enemy.
Now he realized what must have gone through Karpov’s mind when he was faced with the convergence of both British and American fleets in that very first run he made through the Denmark Strait. Karpov knew he had one weapon to clear the seas of his enemies, and one that would still leave his primary missile inventory intact. It made ruthless sense now as Volsky looked at the hard numbers before him.
“Mister Rodenko? Have we obtained any battle damage assessment?”
“We don’t have the KA-40 for long range visuals, but from radar returns the lead ship we targeted has fallen off and reduced speed. I think we can assume a good amount of damage there. We hit two ships, the British hit three. One of those was a smaller class ship, probably a cruiser.”
“And we have 28 missiles remaining…” Volsky thought, and Rodenko was watching him very closely. He had seen what Karpov’s choice would have been—argued against it, and suggested they disengage from Admiral Togo’s fleet, but Karpov had been determined. It took the mutiny of the entire bridge crew, and Doctor Zolkin’s timely intervention, to stay the Captain’s hand. One thing in Rodenko’s mind was still unanswered.
“Sir,” he said. “We haven’t heard from Kazan of late. Do you have any idea where Gromyko is?”
Volsky looked at his watch. “He is most likely on the other side of Sicily. I told him to see about closing the Sicilian narrows, but he is running silent until 16:00. Then we will see what his situation is, so that leaves this battle to us.”
“We could step aside now sir. The British have four battleships out there.”
“Yes? Well the Italians still have six. We do not yet have good battle damage assessments. So I am inclined to proceed here, but I would prefer to conserve my missiles.”
“We could try one more salvo of four, sir.”
“Would four more P-900s do the job? I wonder. Let us try another approach, Mister Rodenko. Activate our Vodopad system. When will we have range with that?”
“The Vodopads?” Volsky was asking about their torpedoes. The name meant “Waterfall,” probably meant to describe the way the torpedoes would fall from the side of the ship, dipping into the sea before they ignited their rocket engines. For a time they would become a missile, streaking out to their assigned targets before entering the sea again to finish their approach as a wake homing torpedo.
“Yes,” said Volsky. “I’ve never been really happy with the performance of those torpedoes, but this is a target rich environment now. If we fire we are almost certain to find targets. Is that system cleared for action?”
“Yes sir, and we still have nine Vodopad torpedoes ready. I saw to the inventory myself after the maintenance evolution.”
“Good. Let’s use a few. We have the range now, if I am not mistaken. Samsonov?”
“That system
is on Tasarov’s board, sir.”
Tasarov had been lost in the sea again, listening to the Italian fleet, memorizing the sounds as he filed them away in his mind. Then he dimly heard his name and sat up at attention.
“No undersea contacts, sir.”
Volsky smiled. “Good to hear that. Am I to understand you are the firing officer for the Vodopad torpedo system we are now discussing?”
“Sir? Yes sir. The Vodopad system. I have that on my board. My inventory reads nine torpedoes.”
“Good enough. Do we have range on this system yet, Mister Tasarov?”
“Yes sir. We can fire now with the Vodopads, or use the UGST type 53 at 50 kilometers.”
“Very well. Vodopad system. Target the heart of the enemy formation. Salvo of four torpedoes please.”
“Aye sir.” Tasarov finally had something to do.
* * *
When the torpedoes fired they appeared again as rockets in the sky. The Italians were on edge and began firing at the oncoming streaks as soon as they saw them, the battleships putting out a barrage of flak that was totally useless. They did not know that however, and when the torpedoes completed their rocket assisted phase and fell into the sea, there were cheers on the bridge of the Littorio and throughout the fleet.
“See there!” said Iachino. Our gunners have a keen eye today! These new British rocket weapons can be stopped after all.”
He had no idea what was happening, that four lethal torpedoes were now boring in on his formation at 50 miles per hour. The torpedoes made a wakeless approach, and homed in by seeking the frothing wakes of the ships they targeted. The cruiser Pola was the first to feel their bite, with a large explosion aft from the big 300kg warhead that nearly blew the entire stern off the ship. The cruiser was still fighting fires in the van from the missile hit it had taken, then it suddenly exploded.
Grand Alliance (Kirov Series) Page 14
