A stickler for details and fine-tuned arrangements on the field, Alexander did not like being upstaged like this. His enemy wasn’t doing what he wished, and there was a part of his mind that wanted to see this whole affair as nothing more than a spoiling attack on Rommel’s part. This is what he voiced next to Quinan.
“By Jove, they must have gotten wind of our operation. Just when we’re getting ready to tee up, Rommel picks on Miles and threatens to turn our flank. Why, its 140 miles to Damascus from the German positions now, over 220 kilometers.”
“Well sir,” said Quinan. “The Brandenburgers ran all the way from Aleppo to Baghdad, so I wouldn’t put it past Rommel to make a run for Damascus.”
“But what if he’s simply trying to foil our plans? This could be nothing more than a demonstration.”
“Then I’d say he’s doing a bang up job of that.” Quinan folded his arms, and a runner came in at that moment, saluting with a message in his other hand.
“Sir, General Wordsworth reports he’s getting some heavy artillery fire, and the Germans have been reoccupying some of the high ground they gave up last week.”
“Thank you, Corporal.” Alexander took the message, somewhat perturbed. “Oh, and in the future, there’s no need to announce your message. Simply deliver it.”
“Sir!” The chastened Corporal saluted, and wisely withdrew.
Wordsworth had the 31st Indian Armored Division, though it was mostly infantry, with two brigades on the line, and its small tank brigade in reserve.
“There’s your spoiling attack,” said Quinan. “This bit on the flank against Miles is the main push. I’ll stake my first born on that.”
“Even so,” said Alexander, “we still have the option of going forward with our own offensive. I could throw five armored brigades at T4 in 24 hours, and the Northumbrian Division was my follow up force. I hate to see all those plans go into the ash can.”
“Yes sir,” said Quinan, “But we ought to be flexible here.”
“I understand, but if we carry on, we can set Rommel back on his right foot. He dances to the center of the ring, and wants me to chase him. But if I bore in, get inside and start body punching, there’s no way he can dally about with any idea about going south to Damascus. I say we just go forward with Operation Gladiator. Let’s make him dance to our tune—not the other way around.”
“So do we bring up the 50th as planned?”
“I should think so. No sense getting unnerved by this attack.”
“Well he’ll be all of two days getting up here. In that time, Rommel could be well on his way to Damascus.” Quinan seemed a bit edgy.
“Nonsense,” said Alexander. “But do get word to General Miles. Have him fall back on Basiri Gap, and screen that road, just in case.”
“Very good, sir.”
As commanding Generals often get their way, the British would decide to call Rommel’s bluff. Alexander immediately felt buoyed up by the decision. He was attacking, and all on schedule with his well-planned operation, and not forced instead to start moving divisions all about the desert in response to what his enemy was doing. He took a deep breath, and smiled, hands on his hips and ready for the fight ahead.
And he had just made his first big mistake.
* * *
Rommel was the first to see it.
He was in his command vehicle when the latest recon report came in. There was a long column of British infantry in the central valley coming up through Baalbek to Al Qusayr. British Armor was also spotted moving up towards the front beyond T4 the previous evening. The British were planning to answer his offensive with one of their own.
In anticipation of that possibility, he had set up a strong Pakfront forward of his infantry, and collected the PzJag battalions from various divisions at the one place he thought they might strike—the T4 Pumping station, just as they were reported to have done so before. Time was now of the essence. Fortunately, the 31st Infantry Division was just off the trains at Homs, and this would be more than enough to stop this attack. In the interest of caution, he would also send orders to the 101st Panzer Brigade to halt south of Palmyra, just in case. But Wiking and 16th Panzer would still continue with their planned drive south. That attack had broken through the British flank guard, and was ready to roll.
Alexander had been on the road from Baalbek, where he had seen off the tail end of the Northumbrian Division. He was eager to get to Al Qusayr, where his forward HQ had been established, wanting news of the offensive that launched that morning, right on schedule. He did not have to wait to reach his headquarters. A jeep was coming south, sirens wailing, command flags flapping in the wind, with a staff Lieutenant Hill looking for the General. He pulled up in a cloud of dust, leaping from his vehicle and rushing over the Alexander’s staff car with a stiff salute and more news than Alexander wanted.
“Sir,” he said. “Word from Miles and the 56th on the right. He’s been overrun.”
“Overrun?” Alexander waited.
“Yes sir. Only one brigade made it back to the ridge road as ordered, and the Germans are through Basiri Gap.”
“I see… And Gladiator?”
“Heavy fighting along the main front sir. No definitive news there yet. You’ll likely learn more at HQ. I was sent to inform you concerning General Miles situation.”
Alexander now had good reason for concern. Miles was on the wrong side of Jabal Ghanim, the ‘Brick Wall,’ and the news that he had only managed to get a single brigade back to the road was deeply disturbing. It spoke of power on that flank. Quinan had been correct.
“Lieutenant. Has 1st Armored been committed?”
“Yes sir, all but 2nd Armored Brigade. It moved cross country to reach the front last night and got a bit jumbled. They’re sorting it out.”
“And the 50th?”
“They moved up right behind the main attack sir, as ordered—one brigade forward; two back.”
“You’ve a radio in that jeep?”
“Yes sir.”
“Well they damn well ought to put one on my staff car. Go and get a message off to General Briggs. Tell him to hold 2nd Armored Brigade in place pending further developments. That goes for the whole of 50th Division as well. And where is General Quinan?”
“He’s at HQ, sir.”
“Very well. I’ll be there directly.”
Alexander wanted a map. The next gap in that Brick Wall was 50 kilometers south, on the road to Mihassah. My God, he thought. What’s happened to the Black Cats? If General Miles had the presence of mind to get there, he could at least use that last Brigade to cover that pass. It seemed that in spite of his determination not to dance to the enemy’s tune, this was something more—a full orchestra! Whatever Rommel was sending round his flank was on a rampage, and it went right through Miles as if he wasn’t even there. Two brigades lost…
God help us, he thought. That man is going for Damascus after all. Unless Quinan has already broken through, I may have no recourse other than a major change of plans now. I’ve gone and thrown everything up north…. But there’s still that Provisional Brigade that came in from Crete, and Boy Browning. Something might be done yet.
Damn! This is maddening.
“Driver!” he said sharply. “Get us to the bloody HQ, and be quick about it!”
Chapter 15
From long years of experience, Rommel knew that he needed three good panzer divisions and infantry support in any major offensive. Advances could proceed at breakneck speed, but with every mile gained, there was an open flank somewhere that would be exposed to enemy counterattack.
In this case, he had been forced to commit his last infantry division to backstop the front at T4, but he was not concerned. That ‘Brick Wall’ Alexander referred to in his planning was going to be his infantry. If it protected the British right flank, it would also serve to guard his own left. The last of the British 56th Division had retreated hastily down the road he wanted, undoubtedly towards the small pass near Mihassah.
Once I get there, he thought, I’ll be half way to Damascus. The terrain is not good on that second leg. There’s a lot of stony ground ahead, broken by wadis coming off that long bony ridge that points the way to the city. I’ll just have that one good road. Wiking Division went cross country, south of this lava field that screens the Mihassah Pass, but there’s a much bigger one up ahead, truly massive, so there will be no way to swing south around Damascus on any wide envelopment. General Gille will have to turn west soon, and then pick up the same road I have 2nd Panzer on now.
The next break in the terrain south of Mihassah is this town here—Ad Dumayr, another 70 kilometers southwest. There’s an air strip there that could be useful, and the rail line from Damascus passes through that town. I must get there before the British can reinforce that area strongly.
He smiled.
I am doing what I have heard the American General boast about—Patton. I am holding them by the nose at T4, and kicking them in the ass with my Panzer divisions. But I’ve been doing this all along. I would have done it all the way to Cairo in Libya and Egypt, if not for that damnable heavy British armor. Strange that there has been no sign of it here. They sent it to Syria before, when the Wiking division was deployed here earlier, but not a whisper of it this time….
* * *
Brigadier Lewis Owen Lyne was a tall, heavy set man, quick to smile, a bully boy for the Army since he joined in 1921. Yet he looked like half a man when he came stumbling in to the HQ hut at Mihassah, looking for General Miles. His Brigade was gone, the 169th, all men who had the special distinction of being designated “The Queen’s Brigade” back home. They took that moniker with them to Syria, but that is where it died. It was Lyne’s troops who took the brunt of the casualties when Lübbe’s 2nd Panzer attacked south of Palmyra, and now it was his Brigade to go down to a man in the wild stampede of the shattered right flank of the 56th. When Rommel did the kicking, Lyne was in his way.
The morale of the Brigade had been low to begin with, now it was nonexistent, and it showed on Lyne’s face when he found Miles and made his report. There was a bloodied bandage on his right arm, but it did not stop him from saluting. “Sir,” he said, his voice catching in his throat until he mastered himself and went on. “I regret to report that my Brigade has been overrun. The HQ staff and a few men from the artillery were the only ones to get out, and now that I’m here, I wish I’d gone down with my men.”
Miles looked him over, sympathetically. “How’s that right arm?”
“Just a scratch sir. It’s nothing.” It was a little more than nothing, but Lyne was giving his CO the stiff upper lip.
“Well, it won’t be any consolation, but we lost the whole of Davidson’s brigade as well. Brigadier Birch and the 167th were the only troops that got out looking anything like an organized force. Damn if we didn’t get our hats handed to us in this one. The Black Cats have been run right off the field by the wolves. Three bloody Panzer Divisions, and that SS Mountain Division came up over the Jebel country as well and damn near cut the road behind us. The whole bloody line went pear shaped on me. The flank is a complete shamble.”
“I’m sorry sir,” said Lyne.
“Not your fault,” said Miles. “If I had known what was coming at us, I would have pulled back much earlier. The SS Motorized division got completely round your right.”
“The men fought hard, sir, but we just couldn’t hold them.”
Miles nodded, pursing his lips. “The whole division is hopping about on one leg now, but I still need you. Davidson got back as well, but he’s not on his feet. They’ve brought up a Provisional Brigade, all the chaps that made it off Crete. It’s yours. Find yourself a staff car and motor on down to Ad Dumayr. That’s where the Brigade is assembling. We’ll get you some help as soon as possible.”
Lyne was surprised to be given anything more than a latrine squad to command, but he saluted again, still trying to find himself after what he and his men had just been through.
“Have that arm looked at,” said Miles, “then get yourself a good meal before you leave. You’ll have the French behind you at Damascus, but I’m afraid you’ll be all we’ve got down there until Alexander can shake some armor loose from Gladiator. Do what you can to delay them on the road. Fall back to Damascus if you must, but we need to hold there. Understand? And Lyne… I’ll put in a good word for you with the brass up top—held in the face of overwhelming odds, and such. That sort of thing will look good in the dispatches. So, chin up and off you go. Here’s your second chance.”
Third chance, thought Lyne as he saluted again, this time with a bit of a wince. He would later go on to command the 7th Armored Division and lead it into Germany in another telling of these events, but for now, he was still a dispirited and troubled man, the wound to his right arm being the least of it. And his ordeal in the Syrian Desert was far from over. Lyne could already see the storm cloud of dust being kicked up by the Germans to the northeast. They were coming on like bad weather, and he forsook any thought of food, looking to find a jeep as quick as he could.
He would not have much time to rest at Ad Dumayr either, for the SS Wiking Division had swung around that smaller lava field to the north and was already finding the road south of Mihassah. In fact, he would not have any time at Ad Dumayr at all. It would serve as a good delaying position, with hills to the left and a lava field on the right. But that field was no more than 10 kilometers wide at that point, and it might be passable.
When he reached Ad Dumayr, Lyne found himself in command of five new battalions, all men who had been in Creforce the previous month. “Well, gentlemen,” he said to his battalion C.O.s on arrival. “Don’t feel bad about be run off Crete. Rommel’s chased me half way across the Syrian Desert, and that’s his dust up that road, so stand lively. We’ll dig in here and hold as long as we can, but if hard pressed, I have orders to fall back on Damascus. I’ll want the recon troops on the far right. All the line infantry should dig in between those hills and the lava bed.”
They were all the rest of that night digging in, while Lyne kept a nervous watch to the northwest. He knew the Germans operated day and night, and the last thing he wanted was to have a column of enemy tanks come barreling into his lines in the dark. Each battalion had no more than four Mark-I 37mm AT guns, and they had been relatively useless against the latest German tanks.
The morning of the 28th, word came that the company of French Armored cars that had been out on forward recon was attacked and driven off by the Germans, who were now only a little more than 15 kilometers from Ad Dumayr. Where was the help Miles had promised him? At noon he had his answer, but it was not what he expected. His new Provisional Brigade was right astride the main road and rail line from Damascus. He heard a distant train whistle, but then all went silent. Then he learned a train had come up from Beirut through Damascus, but stopped a few kilometers to the rear.
An hour later he heard the distinctive tramp of marching feet on the paved road, and got into his jeep to ride back and have a look. There came a column of infantry, rifles slung over their shoulders, and tins, canteens and helmets rattling as they marched. A young officer came up, wearing a red beret, and the Lieutenant saluted smartly.
“Lieutenant John Frost,” he said coolly, “1st Paras are here.” The man smiled.
“Airborne?” said Lyne.
“No, we came up by train this time. Too many fighters about to go jumping out of a plane. The whole brigade’s behind me. I’m just out on point. Where do you want us?”
Brigadier Lyne broke into a broad smile. “I don’t suppose you brought any six pounders?”
“Half a dozen or so,” said Frost. “But few trucks.”
“Marvelous. You see, we’ll be looking at a bloody Panzer Division soon. Possibly tonight. They tore up the 56th something fierce when they came around our flank, and I’m posted here with the Provisionals to try and slow the bastards down. Now, my men are dug in well astride the main road, but I’ll w
ant you chaps on the right…. Out there.” He pointed east, across the dark, stony lava bed that reached up towards Ad Dumayr. “I’ve got a single battalion out there now—44th Recon. Can you reinforce them?”
“Good enough,” said Frost. He took off his beret, and replaced it with his helmet, then looked over his shoulder and whistled. His arm indicated where he wanted the column to go. Then he tipped the rim of his helmet with a wink, and marched off. Frost and his men took up a position just off the flank of Lyne’s main line, right next to the 1st Argyll & Sutherland Highlanders. That was the regiment that went by the nickname of “The Thin Red Line,” only it was khaki and olive drab now. Fitch had 3rd Battalion to the immediate right of Frost, but Dobie took 1st battalion south of the recon troops Lyne had already posted.
General Miles had told the Brigadier that he had his second chance, and it would be just his luck that the Wiking Division had taken the lead, the same troops that had cut up the 169th Brigade. Frost had his men in position, though the ground was so rugged and crusty hard that there was little in the way of digging they could do. The Paras took advantage of any undulation in the terrain, finding small rises to deploy behind, and setting up their MGs and Mortar teams. But Colonel John Frost had never seen the like of the men he would face that day in their desert camouflage uniforms.
His position was hit by 2nd Germania Battalion, with a Motorcycle recon company and a battalion of tanks in support. Needless to say, the few Piats he had, 3 in mortars and Vickers MGs were not going to stop those panzers. His line was hit with tanks, and forced back until the British brought up their 601st Tank Destroyer, with a dozen Achilles TDs mounting the 3-inch main gun. It was a good weapon, (76mm), with enough penetration power to defeat any German Mark III or IV tank. Later it would be upgraded with an even more powerful gun, the QF 17-Pounder that could penetrate 140mm of frontal armor at 500 meters.
Ironfall (Kirov Series Book 30) Page 13
