He looked to Popski and told him to tell them they were bringing his men up at once, unarmed. At this the Lieutenant seemed satisfied, and he seemed to stand easier now, shifting his eye goggles to his forehead.
“Well then,” said Reeves. “Get your party over there, and Sergeant Williams will see to you. We’ll have a lorry sent up for your men, and I’ll inform my Brigadier that you wish to speak with him.”
The winds were beginning to quiet down now, and visibility was improving. Reeves got a glimpse of the KA-40 for the first time, and could hear the sound of some activity there, men moving about, deep voices. He was still very guarded, and he left the odd, unhappy Major and his Russian officer with one last remark.
“Now if you don’t mind, Major, I think I’ll have a good look around with my squadron. Any trouble, mind you, and I’ve got plenty more to share with you and your Russian friends. Understand?” Then he ordered two more armored cars, which is how Popski saw them, to come up and cover the helicopter.
“Don’t worry yourself, Lieutenant,” said Popski. “With those monsters at your beck and call, you’ll get no trouble from our lot.”
“What? This here?” Reeves gestured to his IFV, still waiting behind him, gun at the ready. “Those aren’t the monsters, Major. The big boys are well behind us, as you’ll soon see.”
He gave orders that his Sergeant should get everyone rounded up, secure the scene, and prohibit all radio communications. Then he leapt back up onto his IFV, turning and offering Major Popski the courtesy of a salute, which Peniakoff did not return.
* * *
Brigadier Kinlan had a problem on his hands, and one he did not expect. He had finally come up in a Panther Command Liaison Vehicle with three staff officers, leading the Regimental HQ Scout Troop of eight Scimitar light tanks. If Popski was impressed by the eight wheeled IFV that Reeves had rolled off in, the appearance of these tanks widened his eyes even more.
“They look to be a new breed of animal,” he said. “Never saw a tank like that one before. Why it’s as big as a Matilda II, and I hear you boys call that the Queen of the battlefield.”
A soldier standing by heard that and spoke. “The Queen? Well you can have a look at the King now. Here he comes.”
Then Popski got the surprise of his life. One of the ‘monsters’ that impudent Lieutenant had spoken about came up in a cloud of blowing dust and he could hardly believe his eyes.
The Challenger 2 tank was truly an awesome spectacle, a 62 ton beast that dwarfed the biggest tank Popski had ever seen, which was one of the stalwart Matildas. This tank was nearly three times heavier, almost twice as long and wide, and with a gun on it that looked to be a full sized artillery piece, bigger even than the 25 pounder he was familiar with. It made the 2 pounder on the Matilda look like a tiny popgun by comparison.
“God in his heaven!” His jaw dropped as he stared at the tank. If the British Army had things like that at its command, then all would be well in the world. He simply could not believe what he was seeing, and there was a second monster right behind this one, rumbling with the sound of unmistakable power.
“Sweet Jesus,” he breathed, looking at Brigadier Kinlan now. “Where did you get those?”
“And what part of the British Army do you say you belong to if you never set eyes on a Challenger?” said Kinlan.
“Long Range Desert Group,” said Popski. “Chaps call us the Libyan Desert Taxi Service out here. Italians call us Pattuglia Fantasma, the ‘Ghost Patrol.’ I was assigned as a guide for this man here, and we were out on search and rescue until your cheeky Lieutenant with that scout detail stuck his nose in it.”
“Long Range Desert Group?” Kinlan knew something of the history as well, and the name immediately registered. What was this man doing here, pulling his leg in the middle of a hot zone? Was he daft?
The Brigadier was a quiet, intelligent man, somewhat taciturn, and not given to idle chatter. He ran his outfit with precision and competence, and expected the same from every man under him. He was taking Popski in with a calm, careful gaze, and he could see through a brick wall if given the time. Yet there was something about this strange interloper in the desert and his Russian officer that rang true. These men were not posing or role playing here, though he could not imagine why they were here at all, unless to conduct some deep sabotage or special ops raid. He said as much.
“Well now, Major Peniakoff is it? My take on this situation is as follows. You’re here on a Russian KA-40, which would have to come off a Russian naval unit at sea up north, correct? This man beside you here is clearly an officer in the Russian Navy, and that makes him, and you by extension, my prisoners of war. Now you can make this a whole lot easier if you would cooperate and tell me what you’re about.”
“Prisoners? Are you out of your mind? Yes, we came off this man’s ship—a Russian battlecruiser—and it’s up north in the Med just as you say, cruising right alongside HMS Invincible. Prisoners? The Russians are allies, General, or at least they claim to be. Where do you get off treating us as hostiles out here? And for that matter, I’m regular British Army, just like I’ve told you.” He folded his arms again, ready to stick up for himself and vouch for the Russians no matter how many stars were under this man’s crown.
“Look, Major, the Russians just lobbed a missile our way with the aim of toasting every man in this unit alive, so you’ll forgive me if I’m just a bit touchy about something like that. Lucky for us we got the damn things before they got us. Then I find you out here with a couple squads of Russian Naval Marines, and something tells me you were lasing targets for that ICBM. Didn’t think the Russkies would need to do something like that, but maybe they wanted to be extra careful, and here you are. Now what’s this talk about a Russian battlecruiser sailing alongside HMS Invincible? Old Vince was decommissioned in ’05 and scrapped, so you can scrap that line right along with her.”
He was referring to the modern day light aircraft carrier HMS Invincible, of course, nicknamed ‘Vince’ in the service. If this man thought the ship was still at sea, then it was a giveaway that something was rotten in Denmark here. He was going to find out what it was, one way or another.
“Scrapped?” said Popski. “You might try that one on Admiral John Tovey. He’s out there too, sir. Now, I’ve told you what we’re doing here and, begging the General’s pardon, you might think you’d have half a bone in your head and want your General O’Connor fetched back safe and sound. I’d expect cooperation from the Desert Rats out here, and not this sort of treatment from our own rank and file.” He gave the General an indignant look.
Now a Staff Officer, who had been listening to the whole interrogation, stepped up and quietly whispered something to General Kinlan, which prompted an odd reaction.
“You’re certain?” he said.
“I’ve just called it up on the library pad, sir. Have a look at this…” The man handed Kinlan something that looked to Popski like a small tea tray topped with a glass cover but, to his amazement, the thing lit up in color with a single touch of the General’s hand, and he watched as the man studied something there, then stared at him as though he were looking at a ghost.
“Peniakoff,” said Kinlan. “And you say you’re called Popski?” The library pad was opened to a file on the man. Though Kinlan could not believe this could be the same person, the resemblance to the man in the photograph was uncanny. What was going on here?
“Long Range Desert Group, you say?”
“Right, sir. We’re a new unit, set up by Major Bagnold and Captains Clayton and Shaw—all volunteers, just like me. Long Range Patrol was our first handle. Now we’re the L.R.D.G.”
Kinlan tapped at the strange thing he held in his hand, and Popski could not help leaning in to try and get a better look at it. Then the General gave Popski a long look, puzzled yet penetrating, as if he were trying to see beneath the man’s skin.
Fedorov had been listening, not following everything, but he did catch a few words, and one o
f them was ‘ICBM.’ He asked Popski what had been said about it.
“Just gibberish to me,” said Popski. “Something about us lazing about a target area or some such nonsense. The man doesn’t make any sense, and he’s looking at me like I was his long lost uncle or something. What in the world has happened? These aren’t the Desert Rats I know, and I know a good many. I heard Jock Campbell was out here with the Royal Horse Artillery, but these lads are way over the top. Get a look at those tanks. Bloody amazing! This has to be a special unit. Maybe something Wavell has kept under his hat to surprise old Rommel.”
Jake Kinlan caught those names, another oddity, and scratched his head. Wavell? Rommel? And didn’t this man say he was out here looking for a downed British aircraft carrying a General O’Connor? The name was familiar, and a few taps on his library pad called up the file soon enough. There were several men by that name, a General Rory O’Connor who had served with 11th Armored Division, Middle East Command and Commander of British Forces in Hong Kong before retiring in 1966. This couldn’t be the man they were talking about, nor the older entry for General Richard O’Connor dating back to WWII. Yet something about this man seemed to connect in his mind with these old files. The L.R.D.G. had fought here in Egypt and Libya, along with this ‘Popski’ character as well. Wavell was the man in charge; Rommel his enemy. And this General O’Connor had fought here as well. Was this some sort of elaborate hoax, a man playing at WWII in the desert?
No, he thought. Not possible. I don’t know who this Popski fellow is, but there’s no denying those are bona fide Russian Marines in that truck over there, and that’s a KA-40 sitting there. They came here for a reason, and they were up to no good.
He was interrupted again by his Communications Officer, who reported they had another message from Lieutenant out on point. The column was moving now, the continuous rumble of the heavy vehicles shaking the earth itself as the heavy tanks of the Scotts Dragoons were now passing by, obscured by the sand storm. Popski kept looking over his shoulder, a look of alarm as he listened to it, as if he thought a freight train might come crashing in on them at any moment. The sound of the moving column had a deep, threatening tone that spoke of power and steel on the move, and the unmistakable sound of tanks on the desert sand.
“It seems we have another group out there sir. Reeves is beside himself. Says six jeeps came up the road from Siwa.”
“Berbers again? I thought we had that problem solved for the time being. They must have seen that fireworks earlier, and you’d think they’d want to stay out of it.”
“No sir… Not Berbers. Listen to this!”
Chapter 32
The difficulties of operating in the desert soon became all too apparent to Rommel and the troops of the fledgling Afrika Korps. Those first days on the new continent, walking along the broad streets of Tripoli, amid the bleached white stucco buildings were long gone. Then they were warriors arriving in a new land, full of optimism and vigor. The road move to their jumping off point at El Agheila had not been that arduous, but once actual operations started, the trials of desert combat were before them. Now they faced the empty wasteland, with maps that were far from accurate, dust and blowing sand everywhere, and Rommel’s hot pursuit driving them on like a lion tamer with a whip.
Soon his single division was strung out all across the desert, meeting little resistance beyond an occasional Jock Column or a small delaying force of a few 2 pounder AT guns. The Italian Ariete division bulled its way up the main coastal road, followed by two corps of motorized and leg infantry. The 5th Light swung south and east, hoping to cut off the British retreat.
He did not realize, in those hectic first moments of his offensive, that dark eyes were watching his progress, and the Generals in OKW were thinking what to do about it. His military instincts drove him on, and he pushed his men and vehicles hard to achieve the position he wanted.
Yet his enemy was too crafty and had not fallen into his trap. The British pulled out quickly, and started to retreat, with the infantry heading for Benghazi, and the remnants of 2nd Armored division cutting across the peninsula towards Tobruk. There the British retreat consolidated around that fortified port, with the armor attempting to reorganize to the south of El Adem, protecting the port from a turning maneuver.
Wavell had managed to scrape together a few Indian motorized units and send them west to try and bolster the situation, and he was getting the 9th Australian Division ready to board the trains. That and the 2nd New Zealand Division might be enough to hold, and now he saw that the naval situation preventing the transfer of these good troops to Greece may be a boon in disguise, if the Royal Navy could survive what they were now facing.
The problem now was Rommel. How fast would he come east, and how far would he try to go? And what had happened to General O’Connor? Would the Russians make good on their promise to find him? As reports stacked up, Wavell wished he had the plucky General at his side to plan the defense. Now all he heard was one report after another of Rommel’s advance. He was coming at them like a bad desert storm.
* * *
O’Connor had heard him coming when he listened to the opening rounds of the battle, and he knew he did not have enough men and material in hand to stop the German attack, and the prospect of any further advance on his part to Tripoli was now out of the question. So he turned what was left of the 2nd Armored Division over to General Neame and answered the call from Wavell to fly in to Alexandria for a conference. The German fighter that took a bite out of his plane en route would prevent his timely RSVP, but when the plane went down, he was thankful that he had survived without any serious injury beyond a bruised ego. He seldom gave that any mind, and now his only thoughts were set on how to make contact with friendly British patrols before the Italians found him. He knew they still had a garrison at Giarabub, but also that there were elements of the British 6th Australian Cavalry at Siwa.
The storm that had helped to bring down his Blenheim was still raging, but he thought it best to get away from the wreckage of the plane, even though it was the only shelter available. He and the only other survivors, the pilot and navigator, set about gathering up supplies, flares, water, food, and they took one solid meal in the plane, waiting out the worst of the sandstorm.
“The Italians might have seen us go down,” said O’Connor, “but I doubt if they’ll be too keen on investigating a wrecked plane in this mess. That said, when the storm abates, we move out on foot.”
“But the radio is gone now, sir,” said the pilot. “How will anyone know where we’ve gone if we can’t report?”
“Where else would we go our here but south to Siwa?” O’Connor was squinting at a map, his eyes still full of energy. “But I think we’ll come at it by a roundabout way. If I deduce that’s our only play, I won’t put it out of the question that the Italians might also. So when we move, we’ll head east first, towards that escarpment at the southern end of the Qatarra Depression. From there we can work our way south to Siwa. And I’m afraid we shall have to move while the wind is still up, gentlemen. That way it will blot out any tracks we might leave. One man can carry the survival tent and cooking kit. The others lug all the food and water we can carry. I’m not sure where we are, but I can damn well navigate if I have to. You can back me up, Mister Monk.”
Isaac Monk was the navigator, and he nodded. “I’ve a decent sun compass and time piece, sir.”
“Monkey will get us where you want to go, General,” said Bowers, the pilot. “Just you lead the way.”
It was tough going at first, as they left before dawn with the wind up, as O’Connor suggested. They soon found that walking in the desert was no easy task. When the ground was sandy, it got into their boots and shoes, and their feet would sink into it to the point where they felt they were struggling through mud. When it was stony and hard, the rocks presented sharp, jagged threats, and it was tough on ankles or knees, particularly when they would stumble or fall, which happened all too often.
&n
bsp; As they trudged along, O’Connor took the lead, tapping out a brisk pace with his riding crop as he went, seemingly tireless. Six hours later the other two men were near exhaustion, and so the party stopped to rest and take some light nourishment. O’Connor wanted another six hour march before they set camp for the night, but a second storm seemed to be brewing. He decided to press on, until the blowing sand forced them to stop two hours after mid-day and rig out the survival tent.
There should have been plenty of daylight left, but the skies were blood red with the desert dust, and it almost seemed that night would be upon them soon. They could barely see in any case, the sand stinging their faces and eyes. That night they rode out the storm, huddled in the cold tent while the conference at Alexandria concluded, and the fleet put out to sea. They were still holed up when the KA-40 was also forced to land, but some hours later O’Connor thought he heard the approach of vehicles.
“Look smart, gentlemen,” he said rousing himself. “There’s movement out there. I’m afraid we’ll have to move too, and quickly. But at least knock down the tent. That way it won’t be seen if these are Italians, and I think they must be.”
So they moved on foot again, with no time to break down and stow the tent beyond knocking it flat. But soon the sound of vehicles grew louder, and they were forced to go to ground, hoping they had not been seen. But the well schooled eyes of men who were out there looking for them had found their quarry, and it soon became apparent that they were going to be discovered.
“Stand ready men. We’ve only the three side arms, but if things go the wrong way here, keep a steady hand and make every shot count.”
Thankfully, he did not have to lead this last little defensive action, for when the vehicles appeared he saw they were the jeeps of the Long Range Desert Group. The lead driver waved as they came up in a billow of dust.
Three Kings (Kirov Series) Page 27
