by Stuart Slade
“Our second fighter squadron will be going down to Ceylon to protect the Trincomalee naval base.” Linlithgow repeated the news he had been given with relish. Many of the RAF pilots from the six squadrons based in India had volunteered for secondment to Indian units. In theory, they were simply providing the Dominion squadrons with a cadre of experienced pilots and would return to the RAF units as soon as the Indian Air Force squadrons had gained enough experience to stand on their own feet.
In reality, Linlithgow knew that their motives were more mixed than that. There was an element of envy in it. The Indian Air Force squadrons were getting the new American fighters and bombers; ones that made the Wapitis, Audaxes and Blenheims in the British squadrons seem antiquated. Pilots were pilots; they wanted to fly the better aircraft.
There was more to it than that though. Even a desire not to be stained by Halifax’s collapse wasn’t all there was to it. It was the idea of India itself. There was something about the country that, after a few years here, worked its way into a man’s soul.
“And we must send more forces to the Middle East as well.” Nehru spoke again as the roar of aircraft engines from the flypast died away. He confused himself there as well; the fall of Keren to the Indian troops advancing on Asmara had caused jubilation. The Times of India had even called it a “reaffirmation of traditional Indian martial values.” Privately, Nehru had thought that was going a bit far, but there was no doubt the achievements of the Indian Army in Eritrea and Ethiopia were establishing India as an independent country in the eyes of the world. Soon, more Indian troops and aircraft would be in Iraq and Iran; providing a forward line of defense against the German Army, when the Noth Plan finally got into high gear.
“We have had word from Churchill’s government in Ottawa. They’ve issued a statement confirming that standing orders prior to June 1940 are still in force and that DomCol forces around the world and British forces along with them are to continue fighting, ignoring any ceasefire orders that come out of occupied London. That eases the situation on our guests, of course.”
Nehru nodded at Linlithgow’s words. The ambivalent status of the British forces in the Dominions was a source of running concern to everybody. Now, at least, they had some semblance of authority to link their chosen actions to. “Of course, the question is, can London be considered occupied at this time?”
“I don’t know,” Linlithgow suddenly sounded very old, very tired and utterly broken-hearted. Quietly, Nehru cursed himself for causing the man who had done so much for India such distress on what should have been a happy day. “I never thought, never dreamed, that I would see a day like this. Halifax’s Armistice is against everything that I thought we stood for.”
“Look overhead; Hudsons of the Indian Naval Air Force. India stands on its own feet today and we stand for the ideals Britain taught us. We may be going our own way, Victor, but we still stand for them. The Empire still stands for them all. Britain taught us well and we will hold to those lessons. In us, Britain lives on; in time, we will bring her back to life again.” Nehru meant the words as meaningless comfort to a distressed friend; but, as he spoke them, he suddenly realized he believed every one of them.
CHAPTER TEN: HEATED WORDS
Pilot’s Briefing Room, HMS Eagle, At Sea, Off Gavdos
“I see you’re off to for your afternoon nap. Could I organize a nice cup of cocoa for you?”
The remark sounded impertinent; but, in truth, the Swordfish pilots heading for the briefing room were definitely on the old side compared with the young lieutenants from the ship’s company. But, there was a reason for that. They were hard-core Fleet Air Arm veterans; ones who had started their careers flying the long-forgotten Blackburn Baffin and the almost equally obscure Blackburn Shark. They were low-ranked for their age and service careers; a residual effect of the limited career prospects in a Fleet Air Arm dominated by the Royal Air Force. Yet they had been quietly and diligently pursuing their craft throughout the lean years of the 1930s. The eighteen Swordfish crews on Eagle were probably the finest torpedo bomber pilots in the world. It was a pity their equipment still didn’t match their skills.
“Cheeky little bastard.” Lieutenant James MacFleet growled at the impudent snottie who had dared to remark upon his comparatively advanced age. The youngster stepped to one side as MacFleet bore down upon him. Inside the briefing room, all eighteen Swordfish crews were assembling.
“Gentlemen, settle down please.” Captain Stuart Munroe tapped his podium with a pointer. “We have a critical mission to perform. We have been informed by Maryland reconnaissance aircraft that the Italian battle fleet is out. A Maryland from Malta confirmed that they had left Taranto yesterday evening and this morning we got confirmation that they are heading our way. They were reported south of Zakynthos at 0920; course one-three-five, speed 20 knots. The Maryland reported three battleships, four heavy cruisers and eight destroyers. If that formation holds course and speed, they will be eighty-three miles west of us at 1300. According to our current plans, that is when you gentlemen will sink them. All of them, for preference. I need not tell you that Britain needs a cheerful Christmas present right now.”
MacFleet looked around. Eighteen crews and fifteen ships didn’t augur well for the wholesale destruction Munroe appeared to be expecting. “Sir, am I to assume that the battleships will be the priority targets?”
Munroe shook his head. “No. The situation is this. The group we will be attacking are the covering force for a large convoy heading for North Africa. There are at least twenty of Italy’s largest merchant ships in that convoy and their loss will be a massive blow to the Italian ability to support operations in North Africa. In addition, there are ships carrying an armored group of the Italian Army. Those ships will split away later on and head for Benghazi, while the supply ships head for Tobruk. It will be the job of Warspite and her cruiser-destroyer group to make sure they do not get there. To do that, we need to clear that covering force out of the way. It is not necessary to sink all the ships in that group, just hurt them badly enough to send them home. We want hits made on as many ships as possible; not a lot of hits on a few of them. Is that clear.”
“Sir. Enemy fighter cover?”
“As far as we can determine, there will be none. Technically we will be just in range of land-based fighters, but coordination between Italian ships at sea and aircraft based on land does not appear to be good. The Marylands are reporting no fighter interference.”
“Sir, do we have any information on which ships are in the group?” The leader of B-flight, Lieutenant Colwyn Caradoc, was Welsh through and through. His accent added something undefinably melodic to the briefing. It also made a number of the pilots feel homesick. They were all aware that the split between Britain and the rest of the Empire meant it could be a long time before they went home.
“Our information is that it includes the battleships Andrea Doria, Caio Duilio and Conte di Cavour. Heavy cruisers Bolzano, Zara, Fiume and Gorizia. That’s what the Marylands say, anyway.” Munroe added the comment quickly. The ability of RAF crews to recognize warships was not one of their most advanced capabilities. “We don’t know who the destroyers are. One thing I must stress, if Warspite and the group with her can get into the Italian convoy, it will be a catastrophe for the Italians. Not just in terms of ships and supplies sunk, but in the position that their troops in Italy will be left holding. Headquarters now believes almost 100,000 of their men are cut off along the coast between Mektila and Mersah Matruh. They will have to surrender within three or four days at the most, unless a relief effort can be mounted. Every day that passes means that relief effort gets more difficult. We had news this morning that the Australians are moving into Bardia. If that city falls, then the nearest port to the Italians will be Tobruk. We believe that is why the merchant ships are heading for there; the Italians evidently believe that Bardia cannot hold out.”
Munroe stopped speaking as a messenger from the Signals Division entered wit
h a message flimsy. He took it and read the contents. A slow smile of satisfaction spread across his face.
“Gentlemen, I am pleased to inform you that the Italian battleships are continuing to head south at a somewhat higher speed of advance than originally thought. They are currently off Cape Methoni, some 120 miles north west of us.”
He turned to the map behind him and marked the latest position report on the chart. Then, he drew the connecting line joining their position to that of Eagle and her four escorting destroyers. The navigators in the crews quickly noted down the positions and the course needed for the intercept.
“We have 15 Swordfish ready to launch and will hold the remaining three, plus our three Sea Gladiators, in reserve. Man your aircraft, gentlemen; we launch immediately.”
Outskirts of Bardia, Libya, North Africa
“There are how many Eye-ties in there?” Sergeant Joe Solomon couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing.
“About 45,000, so the big brass says.” Lieutenant Garry Oswin repeated the numbers he had been given. “With thirteen tanks and about a hundred machine gun carriers. And nearly 300 guns; ranging from our old friend the 65mm mountain howitzer to 150mm heavy guns. All defending an 18-mile perimeter.”
“Strewth.” Solomon was surprised at the sheer size of the force that was trapped in Bardia. “And we’re attacking it with a single battalion?”
“Not us, Joe. Our part in this is a demonstration. The 16th Brigade will be doing the real work, hitting the defenses on the western end of the perimeter. They get the Tillies supporting them. Our job is to draw the attention of the Italian defenses here, in the east. We’ve got some porteed two-pounders to back us up if the Eye-tie tanks show up. We’re not supposed to get into a real fight though. Just prevent the Eye-ties from moving any of their troops westwards.”
Solomon snorted, guessing that limiting a fight was hoping for too much. He was about to say so when he was interrupted by an express train roar; one he recognized as inbound 15-inch gunfire. “You didn’t say we had battlewagons in support, sir.”
“We haven’t. That’s the monitor Terror and three gunboats. They were in the Red Sea, but they came through the Canal and have been moving up to support us. Should even things up a little, I reckon. Especially since we captured the plans of this place at Sidi Barrani. We know the exact positions of each one of those bunkers.” Oswin grinned at his Sergeant. “And if the Navy don’t get them all, we’ve got more of our own artillery in place. The new 25-pounders, no less. We may be a demonstration, but we’re not lacking for support. Anyway, get your men ready to move out, Joe, on the whistle.”
Solomon carefully looked at the ground he and his men would have to cross. There was a continuous antitank ditch, with a steep, 200-foot embankment on the opposite side. The slope was festooned with barbed wire and heavily mined. Once at the top, there were company-and platoon-sized strongpoints with antitank and machine guns. Each of them had its own antitank ditch and there was a second line of strongpoints behind them. All in all, it was a well-designed defensive system.
Solomon was glad he and his men wouldn’t have to fight their way through it. All they had to do was to reach the ditch, then use the captured Italian picks and shovels they’d been issued to break down the banks. That would convince the Italians that the Matildas were coming. They would have to move their own forces to match them. Stories of the battles further east and the sight of invincible Matildas plowing through the defenses had spread worldwide; the Matilda was now an iconic image of the war being fought here in the desert.
The huge roar of the 15-inch shells seemed to slacken slightly. The three gunboats more than made up for that by hammering a rapid tattoo of six-inch shells into the Italian defenses. Overhead, Solomon heard the drone of a Lysander circling to spot for the artillery fire. As if the sound was the signal for the attack, a blast of whistles ran along the front. The Australian infantry rose to surge forward. Solomon yelled out “Come on you lazy bastards, we’ve got some digging to do.” There was little need for it. His men were already up and out of their jump-off positions.
By the time they reached the antitank ditch, the Italians were beginning to return fire. There was dead ground from rifle and machine gun fire at the foot of the escarpment, but the 65mm howitzers in the strongpoints at the top dropped shells on to the infantry beneath. Solomon’s men were hard at work. Their picks broke up the hardened sand of the trench sides. Others with shovels spread the dirt out to form ramps for the tanks that they hoped the Italians believed were coming.
The light cracks of the 65mm guns were supplemented by the roar of the Italian big guns. A bit down the line from Solomon’s platoon, 150mm shells slammed into a group of Australians who were working on another section of the ditch. Those that weren’t killed outright were buried in the sand as the shells caved the walls in on them.
“Screw this for a game of soldiers. Up and at ‘em, lads.”
Solomon didn’t know who had yelled out the words, but its effects were immediate. His men dropped their picks and shovels. They started climbing the embankment. Some grabbed the posts of the wire entanglements to help them make the ascent.
“Stop, get back here!”
Lieutenant Oswin shouted the command. He was speaking to the backs of his platoon, already swarming up the slope. He shook his head and looked at Solomon helplessly. “We’re in command here. I suppose we’d better follow them.”
“Just as safe to go forward as back,” Solomon agreed. He followed his officer up the slope. The platoons on either side of them had already seen his men starting the climb up; they dropped their tools to follow suit. Off to their left, there was a break in the embankment where the coast road led into Bardia. It was blocked by barbed wire entanglements and a concrete redoubt. The roadblock was already under assault from the Australians. Whatever the brass had thought about this being a simple demonstration, it was turning into a full-blooded assault on what was probably the most heavily defended part of the Italian perimeter.
It was a hard climb up the embankment. Solomon was gasping for breath by the time he reached the top. When he got there, he could see that the Italians had made a bad mistake. The two rows of strongpoints were individually well-sited, but there was too much space between them. They weren’t mutually supporting. Each could be isolated from assistance and taken.
There was a well-established drill for that. Each position would be subjected to six-round concentrations from the artillery, while the infantry moved into place. Then, the Bren gunners would keep the defender’s heads down. The grenadiers would move up and start lobbing grenades into the defenses. The concrete walls would keep the fragments in and turn the positions into death traps. With the defenses silenced by the grenades, the riflemen and Bren gunners would move in and take the position. It was a simple drill; well-tried and very effective.
The Australians were having none of it.
They were simply swarming forward, overwhelming the strongpoints with a mad rush. They jumped the concrete walls and killed the defenders with the bayonet. Solomon was appalled. All it would need to turn this situation into a blood-drenched catastrophe was a single Italian officer with the presence of mind to take a brief pause, compose himself and launch a coordinated counterattack. The Australians would be caught out in the open, between the hammer of the counterattack and the anvil of the remaining strongpoints. They’d be lucky to escape with just a massacre. About the only good thing at this point was that the gunfire from offshore had stopped. The Lysander crew overhead must have seen what was happening and radioed an emergency ceasefire order through to the ships.
Solomon was already up with his men, trying to bring them into some sort of order and start the process of reducing the strongpoints in a rational manner. By which, he meant according to the book. He was quick to realize that the book had already been thrown out of the window. Nothing he or Lieutenant Oswin could do would get it back. The only hope now was to keep up the momentum of the
assault and not give the Italian officer he feared the moment he would need to get control of the battle.
A brief look around told him two things. One was the tiny number of figures in khaki lying on the ground. For all the insanity of the assault, so far, the casualties were remarkably few. The other was that the Australian breakthrough was spreading sideways, ripping an ever-larger hole in the Italian defenses. Already, the coastal road was being opened up as the defenses fell to simultaneous attacks from front and rear.
Then Solomon saw what he dreaded. Italian tanks. At least a half-dozen of them rumbled towards the milling mass of Australians. His men had no antitank guns; nothing that could stop them. Now it’s our turn, he thought; remembering how the Matildas had crushed the Italian infantry under their treads. The tanks continued to advance. Solomon tried to get his men under control and into the overrun Italian fortifications. There might be antitank guns or rifles there. Now that’s a slim hope at best.
Over on his left, a Bren gun carrier had seen the risk. It tried to engage one of the tanks with a peppering of machine gun fire. Gallant but useless. He doesn’t stand a chance.
One of the Italian tanks fired its turret gun. The Bren gun carrier exploded into a ball of flame. That told Solomon something else. The tanks were M13/40s; better armed and armored than the M11/39s they’d faced earlier. This time, there are no Matildas here to help.
That made it all the more surprising when one of the M13/40s stopped, black smoke belching from its engine compartment. After briefly contemplating the possibility the sight represented divine intervention, Solomon realized that the portees with their two-pounders had arrived. They must have made it up the road, he thought Antitank shots snapped out across the battlefield, knocking out one tank after another. Solomon could only see a single portee, but its gun destroyed four of the M13/40s. Then it was hit, silencing the gun.
