The Australian 6th Divisional Cavalry Regiment was the one unit that had managed to escape the onerous garrison duty. Being well motorized, it was sent south to keep watch on the long frontier wire, and particularly on the Italian outposts at Garn el Grein south of Fort Maddalena, and at the Oasis of Giarabub. Along the way, Captain Brown’s Squadron of motorized Infantry fought a sharp engagement with the Italians at Garn El Grein, cutting through the wire to try and take the place by surprise, but finding the enemy defense alert and vigorous. Brown soon found his column under artillery fire, and the Italians had also managed to call on the services of three C200 fighters from Giarabub, which were strafing his men and trucks until they finally ran out of ammunition.
Captain Brown withdrew his column to the British held outpost at Siwa, where he joined the Regiment HQ under Colonel Fergusson and the 2nd Squadron commanded by Major Abbot. Even together, the force comprised no more than 300 men in trucks, mostly armed with Vickers machine guns and a few light mortars beyond the rifles carried by the troopers. Yet Fergusson soon was given the task of trying to lever the Italians out of their oasis outpost at Giarabub.
“It was one thing to go after them while we were heading west,” said Fergusson as he gathered his officers together to try and come up with a plan. “Now, with Rommel heading east, we aren’t likely to get any of the reinforcements I requested.” Fergusson had asked for two more infantry companies and an armored squadron, with supporting artillery and a platoon of engineers. He would get only the artillery and engineers, four 25 pounders, two 40mm Bofors and 32 engineers under Captain O’Grady. The Italians at Giarabub were now thought to number at least 1200 men, with six MG companies, engineers and artillery under Colonel Costiana. The British therefore found themselves outnumbered four to one.
Brigadier General Morshead’s 18th Australian Brigade was supposed to reinforce the desert force at Siwa and capture the Italian outpost at Giarabub, but it would not be coming in this history. Hard pressed by at least five Italian Infantry divisions, Wavell had sent it to Tobruk by sea to reinforce that garrison to four brigades. So Colonel Fergusson was alone at Siwa with his 300 man motorized cavalry unit, and a few hardened souls belonging to the Long Range Desert Group that were watering there, Popski’s confederates.
The ‘diggers’ in the tough Australian cavalry unit nonetheless set to aggressive patrolling and probing of the enemy’s positions, always answered by plenty of enemy artillery and machinegun fire. Unable to live with the tortuous names on the maps they had of the area, they began to rename prominent terrain features with easier handles. A depression where Captain O’Grady had been forced to dismount his men to push his 25 pounders along on foot soon became “O’Grady’s Dell.” A narrow wadi covered by a small Italian 44mm gun the Aussies called “Pipsqueak” was summarily named “Pipsqueak Valley.” A stony outcrop known as El Hamra became “Brown’s Hill.”
The heat wasn’t as bad in December, though it was bitterly cold at night under the cloudless, star sewn sky. The pristine, rugged beauty of the desert was the only consolation the Aussies had. When word came that they could count on no further reinforcements for some time, Colonel Fergusson resigned himself to a cautious watch on Giarabub, still mounting regular patrols, largely in an effort to convince the Italians he had far more troops than he actually did.
“Keep nipping at them like an angry terrier,” he told his men. “If they find out we’re no more than battalion strength, then the tables will turn bang away, and we’ll be the ones sitting at Siwa with the Degos at the perimeter trying to get in.”
A day later he got even more disheartening news. General O’Connor’s plane had gone down in the desert somewhere northeast of Giarabub. The Blenheim twin engine light bomber, once the fastest plan in the air force, was now well behind the aeronautical engineering curve, and it had been no match for the Me-109 that found it that day. The German fighter got off one good pass, striking the left wing with MG fire as it flashed away, apparently out of ammunition.
In the effort to evade, the Blenheim had turned south and dove. Before the plane could recover altitude, the winds kicked up into a sudden, fierce sandstorm, blowing heavily out of the northwest. They tried to climb above it, but that single pass by the Me-109 had nicked the left engine and it caught fire under the strain. Unable to climb, they knew they would have no chance in that sandstorm, so the General told the pilot to run south away from the storm and towards Siwa. They were still well north of the oasis when the engine gave out, and so they wisely elected to attempt a crash landing.
Lieutenant Cory, of B Troop 1/6th Australian Cav, thought he saw something through the gloomy silted sky that evening, a strange glow in the sky, but he and his men had to hunker down for the storm as well. They were out on point, up beyond a gully they had dubbed “Davidson’s Pass” after the first scout section that went through. Their position was right near the Libyan border at Ayn Melfa, which they had taken from a small Italian patrol the previous day. Giarabub was 35 kilometers due west of his post, and much farther to the east, on a high rocky outcrop, there was a lonesome, haunted plateau that would soon be visited by spirits and demons from another world.
* * *
The KA-40 with Fedorov’s rescue team was very close, well south over the dread Qattara Depression, at the trailing edge of that storm as it swept south. The depression was the lowest place in Egypt, descending from impassible craggy escarpments to a depth of 80 meters below sea level. There were endless miles of soft wet ‘sebkha,’ a silty soil that made the area impassible to all vehicles and even camels if they were loaded with any cargo. All around it lay a maze of parched dry lake beds fed by gnarled, dry wadis. Other places were dotted with shallow sand and salt marshes, fringed by parched stony ground that had been baked in the hot sun and scoured by the harsh desert winds for ages. It was no place for any man to be, if he wanted to live very long, and O’Connor’s Blenheim was fortunate to have avoided it on his run south.
Fedorov was stooped over a good map of the region, checking signal coordinates from O’Connor’s last known position just before the plane went down. He squinted out through the forward view panes on the helo, seeing the dull brown silt in the air, and knowing that if they found themselves in the thick of it, the engine filters could clog up and they would be in the same position as O’Connor. At the moment, they were in a void between two great arms of brown blowing sand and silt, and Fedorov thought they had better look for a safe place to land. Even technology from his future time would have to bow before the wrath of Mother Nature, and so he began to look over the map for a suitable spot where they could ride out the last of the storm.
“This feature looks interesting,” he said, fingering a high plateau surrounded by sheer escarpments. “Come to 170 southeast, and we can set down on that plateau. The map indicates firm ground, some gravel and scattered sand over hard stone. It should take the weight of the helo easily enough.” He showed Popski the map, indicating the spot he had in mind in case he had any advice.
“Put down here,” said Popski. “Bir Basúre. There’s a water cairn there that feeds from an underground artesian spring. It’s not much, but better than nothing. There’s a road that passes close by that place, and runs here, all the way down to Siwa. These other roads shown on that map of yours don’t even exist, as far as I know, and that’s a good deal when it comes to this desert. But what’s this bit here?” He pointed to a shaded zone on the map sitting square atop the escarpment fringed plateau, a large triangle spanning some 50 kilometers.
“Old map,” said Fedorov, quickly folding it and putting it away. In fact it was a very new map, printed in 2021, and the features Popski had asked him about were new developments northwest of Siwa, and the roads that serviced them. Fedorov reminded himself to keep that map under wraps in the future. Popski was not aware of their true origins and identity. He had only been told that they were ‘allies,’ a catchall category that would hang on the citizens and soldiers of many nations b
efore this war was over.
“The desert shifts and changes every day,” said Popski. “At least the bugger got Bir Basúre right when he drew that map. There’s three hills north of the place. If you get down low it should be easy to spot. That will put us about 70 kilometers northwest of Siwa. I can radio the lads there and have them come out with a few jeeps.”
“Well the storm can’t last forever,” said Fedorov. “We’ll be conducting the search with the helicopter.”
“No, it won’t last forever,” said Popski, “but it may damn well come to feel that way once it sweeps in. I’ve seen these storms bury field phone wire six feet deep in an hour. That’s stony ground where we’re landing, well up on the plateau, so we’re safe from sand drifts. But if it’s no bother to you, I’d feel better with some vehicles at hand. Just in case.” He gave Fedorov a wink and a nod, and the young Captain could see no reason why he shouldn’t make the call.
As they made their approach, Fedorov spotted the angular plateau ahead, recognizing it from an article he had read the previous year… so long ago it seemed now, in the year 2020. That was the place where BP made that great breakthrough. He was not thinking of Bletchley Park this time, but of another BP, British Petroleum. Yes, that was the place that was supposed to save the Western world for the next twenty to fifty years with flows of light sweet crude that must be hidden there even now, deep beneath the forbidding terrain. What was the name? He remembered it now, a strange handle for the world’s newest superfield in 2020. It was called Sultan Apache.
* * *
“Troyak calls it the Devil’s Teardrop,” said Orlov.
“Don’t be stupid,” said Zykov. “The Devil never weeps. He’s too busy laughing.”
The other men chuckled at that as they huddled near their field tents. The helo was down, safely landed with the engines capped off and secured from blowing sand, which wasn’t bad yet. The men had established a camp to wait for Popski’s comrades and their jeeps. Popski thought it might be wise to have a look around while they were on the ground, and Fedorov agreed. If the Italians had patrols out, they might stumble on them by surprise.
Popski assisted the Marines in getting ‘desertized’ as he called it. He had them tuck their trouser cuffs into the top of their boots, and made sure each man had a good pair of goggles and a scarf. Thankfully they had brought these things at his request, and they now proved their worth when the sand started blowing. The Marines then set up tents that could be well sealed off, but Troyak knew they would have to mount a security watch, and he took the post himself, along with Popski, who seemed restless and ill at ease the moment they were on the ground again.
“You expecting the night witches any time soon?” Zykov asked their guide, ribbing him a bit.
“If they come, they’ll be in an Autoblinda-40 armored car with a pair of nasty 8mm machine guns mounted in the turret.”
“Oh?” Zykov smiled. “If they do, they’ll get a nice little RPG-30 for their trouble, and I’ll blow them half way to hell.”
Popski gave him a stolid grin. “You men might be well armed, and I can see you’ve been well trained, but understand one thing here. You’re never safe in the desert. Never. Look around, we already are half way to hell. If any place on this earth could be called that, it’s right under your ass as we speak. Your Sergeant Troyak knows as much. I can see it in the way he took his post the moment we landed.” Popski nodded to Troyak, who was standing off a ways out from the helicopter, his assault rifle unshouldered and at the ready.
“Hey Popski,” said Orlov. “What do you make of this?”
He tossed their guide the strange object he had found in Siberia.
“One of your grenades?” Popski gave it an odd look.
“Naw, just something I happened across on another mission. Troyak calls it the Devil’s Teardrop. Ever seen anything like it?”
“Can’t say as I have. Damn thing is smooth as silk, so it is not any kind of rock I’ve ever seen. Good name for it, given its shape. Where’d you come by it?”
“Siberia, another kind of desert. Dangerous there too.”
“Scared the shit out of Orlov,” said Zykov. “That’s for sure.”
“Zavali yebalo!” Orlov swore in protest, but Zykov just gave him a wink.
“Maybe I’ll get there one day and we’ll see,” said Popski. And he tossed the object back to Orlov, who held it in his hand, fiddling with it like a man might play with a marble. Then he suddenly had a strange look on his face, his eyes widening, hand opening quickly as he dropped the object to the stony ground.
“Yob!” he said loudly, shaking his hand. “What did you do to the damn thing ? It’s hot as hell!”
They all stared at the object, amazed to see that it was glowing with a strange luminescence, a phosphorescent green. Then there came a roar that sounded like a peal of distant thunder, and Popski looked over his shoulder, his weathered eyes laden with concern.
He reached for his submachine gun where it rode easily on his broad round shoulder. The other Marines acted on sheer instinct, weapons ready and up on their feet at once. A second crack of thunder was heard, then eerie green lightning scored the darkening reddish brown sky, which was suddenly alight, backlit with a bright glow.
Any explosion in the desert could mean only one thing, thought Popski. They had been found. It had to be artillery. They were under attack.
Part IX
The Brigade
“Our fate is not frightful because it is unreal; it is frightful because it is irreversible and ironclad. Time is the thing I am made of. Time is a river that sweeps me along, but I am the river; it is a tiger that tears me apart, but I am the tiger; it is a fire that consumes me, but I am the fire.”
― Jorge Luis Borges
Chapter 25
The British position on the Egyptian Frontier was far from secure. The 6th Australian Division was now penned up in Tobruk, and the 9th division held a wide defensive arc that stretched from Bardia through Sidi Azzeiz to Hafid Ridge, but it wasn’t staying. A German General in Rommel’s Afrika Korps had looked at his map and made a telling pronouncement on the position around Bardia and Sollum. “It was a tactician’s dream and a logistician’s nightmare,” he had said, and that was now proving true.
With O’Connor’s plane down and the General lost in the desert somewhere north of Siwa, Brigadier General Neame was in command of the withdrawal. He took a look at the map as well, and concluded the same thing. Bardia could not be held as it was north of Sollum, where a steep escarpment finally reached the coast again from positions well inland to the east. Largely impassible to armor or vehicles, there were only a few narrow defiles that permitted motorized traffic to pass the barrier of that escarpment. The best of these was Halfaya Pass, very near the small coastal town of Sollum itself.
With only the 9th Australian division in hand, and the scattered remnants of his 2nd Armored division, he realized there was no way he could hold off the enemy advance. So he determined to withdraw the 9th Australian division from its defensive perimeter around Bardia and through Sollum, to a safe position behind that imposing escarpment. It was like a king falling back to the safety of a hard stone castle. Now his badly outnumbered troops only had to defend the few passes at Sollum, Halfaya and further south at a place the British called “Halfway House” near hill 617, a pass about half way down the length of the long escarpment, 30 kilometers east of Sollum.
It was a wise move, for now it would force Rommel to continue east for another 70 to 80 kilometers if he wanted to get beyond the escarpment where any flanking move would again have a chance to cut the vital main coastal road. The tactician’s dream was that escarpment, and the natural castle in the desert it formed, well supplied by that coastal road running up to Sollum. The Logistician’s nightmare was the fact that in making a further move east to try and isolate that position, Rommel had only thin secondary roads through increasingly rough terrain in front of him. The ground became more stony, with deeper
sand in small pockets, and occasional depressions to dry lake beds that would impede vehicular traffic.
Yet what Brigadier Neame did not know was the real strength of the force that the wily German General now had in his Afrika Korps. What had started as a blocking force and reconnaissance in force over a month ago had now become a full fledged offensive that OKW had been feeding with new units as fast as the ships could get them to Tripoli.
General Keitel had been busy those last weeks, and he delivered on his promise to Rommel in spades. Not only was Malta being targeted for Axis occupation, the 5th Light Division had been rapidly reinforced with additional armor and halftracks, and re-designated “21st Panzer Division.” More than this, a second Panzer Division, the 15th was quickly moved to Tripoli, much sooner than it had arrived in the history Fedorov knew. Keitel had also put together a new motorized Schnell Division, designated the 90th Light, again formed early in this retelling of events, and though it did not yet have its trucks, the Germans leaned on their new found friends in Vichy North Africa and politely asked them to sell them 1500 trucks from Tunisia and Algeria. They could move them by rail into Tunisia, and from there they could make their way to Tripoli. When the troops of the 90th Light arrived by sea, they would find their vehicles waiting for them.
Three Kings (Kirov Series) Page 21
