“They went east to Ar Raqqah.”
“I see… Well the French won’t hold that for very long. Has King Force moved?”
“Yes sir, they reached Dier-ez-Zour this morning,” said Anderson. That wasn’t exactly true. The fast moving 4th Cavalry was there, but most of King Force was still strung out along the long road from Hadithah, and they were getting low on petrol.
“The good news is that 10th Indian has come up from Baghdad,” said Quinan. “The head of their column is at Hadithah.”
“Can the French get out of Ar Raqqah?”
“They might. The secondary road on the east bank of the river is still open. But if they can hold on a few days that would buy us time.”
“Yes, but at the cost of that brigade,” said Wavell. “I want them out of there. They can move south to link up with King Force and the Indian Division. Then we’ll have enough in hand to make a stand. Glubb Pasha is at Dier-ez-Zour. He can get the French to good ground if they can get south. As it stands, Ar Raqqah isn’t important to us at the moment.”
“Well sir,” said Anderson. “Most of the country east of the Euphrates is fairly wild—Bedu trash and such. Glubb Pasha is up there running them hither and thither every other week. From Ar Raqqah Jerry can just push on east and he can be in Iraq in two days. I daresay those bandits up there would roll out the welcome mat for the Germans.”
“Quite likely,” said Wavell, “but I’ve looked that over and taken measures to prevent it. 5th Indian Division has moved down from Kirkuk. They can serve as a blocking force if Jerry moves as you suggest. Get the French moving. We’ll do much better fighting for Dier-ez-Zour. Ar Raqqah is too far north, just as you cautioned a moment ago.”
“Very good sir.”
“Alright then, what shall we do about Hamah?” Wavell looked them all over. Clutterbuck was quiet, having only just arrived, and deferring to the senior officer present, Anderson.
“Holding Hamah covers the road through Masyaf to the coast, but Ficklin’s 5th is trying to hold a front of nearly 90 kilometers. It just won’t do. They’ll turn his right flank tomorrow, if not today. RAF says there’s still a lot of movement up north on both road and rail lines. They may just be shaking themselves out and getting ready to move.”
“You say Ficklin is 25 klicks north of Hamah?”
“Yes sir, right about here, I should think.”
“Then let’s get him back closer to the city. He can still hold on at Masyaf, but his line can move right through Hamah… and general Clutterbuck.”
“Sir?”
“Would you move anything you have at hand up this road? That should help cover Ficklin’s flank.”
“Right sir, I can send three battalions directly.”
“Good. Your 2nd Brigade is still at Beirut, am I correct?”
“It is, sir.”
“Then have it put on the trains and bring it here. As for that armor, when it gets here it will be our inside counterpunch if they break through towards Homs.”
“And what if they bypass?” asked Anderson. “They can reach the Tripoli Pipeline in another day or so.”
Wavell took a deep breath, rubbing his forehead, and looking very old and tired. “Then we fight,” he said. “They can’t very well leave what amounts to two divisions in their rear. They can run about if they please, but they’ll have to deal with us, won’t they? When 46th Division arrives things will look a good deal different. So we hold on, and we fight them. After all, that is what we’re here for.”
It certainly was.
* * *
John Bagot Glubb had taken his fabled Arab Legion right up the road from Dier-ez-Zour to perhaps the most defensible ground in the region. To the west, the imposing heights of Jabal Buliyah rose above stony flanks that were scored in every direction by dee winding wadis. It was therefore quite difficult to attempt any flanking move from that direction, particularly for motorized troops. To the east was the river, and beyond it the barren reaches of the Syrian Desert. That flank might be turned, but only by a force on that side of the river, and the only crossing points were up near Ar Raqqah. So any force that came down the main road on the west bank of the Euphrates would simply have to try and bull their way through the blocking position he had set up.
A fluent speaker of Arabic, and well-schooled in the ways of both the desert and the Bedouin tribes that inhabited the place, Glubb proved most useful. He learned everything he knew the hard way, in the desert itself, where he had once taken a 500 mile camel ride with the tribes. Now he adopted their ways, earning their growing respect as he did so, a leader from the British Empire that was embraced as one of their own.
To look at him one would not think the man capable of the things history recorded in his name. He was a diminutive, almost impish figure, with a round bulbous nose, deep blue eyes, sandy hair and ruddy complexion, with a small mustache. A wisp of a smile was often on his lips, and he listened much more than he ever spoke. The wound he had suffered in WWI when a bullet grazed his chin gave him an odd, cheeky look, and he had a quiet disposition that belied the inner strength of the man.
His troops were also strong men, hardened by the desert, a wild streak in them, but also the hardness of rock, and an implacable nature that would make them tenacious fighters. They had been recruited into the legion, wearing British uniforms, but with Arab headdress and the legion badge of a Royal crown above two curved scimitars. Their thick belts held a pistol on one side and a curved dagger on the other to augment their rifle or sub-machinegun. Bandoliers of ammunition were strung from each shoulder, the bullets jutting like sharp teeth. How Glubb had won their hearts is not entirely known, but they worshiped him, and would follow him anywhere.
He had set up at the village of Aannabe, astride the main road and on the heights of Tel Salem about 5 kilometers to the west. At noon on the 13th, he saw troops approaching, and the fists of his men tightened on their weapons. Glubb wasn’t a man to be taken by surprise. He had his small armored car company about 10 kilometers up the road, and now they reported by radio that the dust in the distance was a column of French troops—the Free French Brigade that had retreated from Ar Raqqah.
That was to be expected, he thought. Better to have them here with us than to fight it out alone up there. He got on the radio and passed the word on to Brigadier Kingstone, who had finally reached Dier-ez-Zour after a 175 mile road march over the last two days. The news he conveyed had a barb in it, for the French had reported that the Germans were now advancing on both sides of the river. Kingstone contacted the French, asking them to withdraw on Dier-ez-Zour and cross east of the river at Ayyash to cover that flank. He could then backstop both positions from this position in the city, and the 10th Indian Division was only a day behind him.
So Glubb settled in, brewing up a cuppa on the heights of Tel Salem, and looked over his “girls.” That’s what the British regulars called them, “Glubb’s Girls,” though they meant no disrespect. They did so because in spite of the fact that the Arabs were all issued uniforms, they insisted on wearing their flowing white desert robes over them, and their long dark hair streamed in the wind when they were on the move. But these ladies were not to be trifled with. They had a singular ardor for battle, and could often be heedlessly brave, forsaking any thought of their own personal safety in the interest of honor, and sometimes, vengeance.
They were a sharp sword that Glubb had somehow managed to sheath and carry on the hip of the British Empire, even though he was not technically in the service of His Majesty’s armed forces any longer. He had resigned his commission to focus on leading the Arab Legion, and today he had led it here to this desolate place, to face one of the best divisions in the German Army.
* * *
Oberst Frieburg had taken his 1st Regiment of the Brandenburgers right through Tayyibah Pass. Leutnant Gruber led the way, and when they reached As Sukhnah, they found a battalion of British regulars well entrenched around the village. They were the 9th Royal Fusiliers, a t
ripwire defense to warn of any enemy encroachment in that area, but now they would face a difficult fight. Frieburg deployed to attack on all sides, and by noon it was a veritable Rorke’s Drift of a position, machine guns rattling, mortars firing, infantry advancing under cover of smoke.
The Fusiliers, though badly outnumbered, held on in their slit trenches all afternoon. Near dusk the fighting subsided, and taking advantage of a gap in the enemy encirclement, the British leapt to their trucks and raced south. The alarm was raised, and that had prompted General Miles at Palmyra to deploy the bulk of his forces there to cover that flank. Unfortunately, that was exactly what Guderian had intended, for that regiment of the Brandenburgers was merely meant to make a demonstration by occupying that pass. They were in a position to move either east to Dier-ez-Zour, or west to Palmyra, and in either case, they would be severing the vital Tripoli pipeline.
As darkness fell, the British did not yet know how big the force was in the Tayyibah Pass, nor did they know that they had no intention of proceeding west to threaten Palmyra. General Beckermann was still deciding how to proceed after mopping up at Ar Raqqah.
“The French wanted nothing to do with us,” he said to Konrad. “Since we have them by the balls back in France, it’s no surprise they have none here.” The General was looking over his map.
“Look at that terrain to the west,” said Oberst Langen. “That’s impossible to flank if we take this main road.”
“Then take your regiment east of the river. Konrad, your Lehr Regiment goes with him. Take this junction here, and demonstrate towards Dier-ez-Zour. I want to see what they have up their sleeves there.”
“You mean to attack it from that side of the river? That won’t be easy. It looks like there is only one small bridge.”
“I don’t mean to attack it at all. You two are going to Baba Gurgur. The only reason we need Dier-ez Zour is for a watering hole. That said, Frieburg is already through this gap here. I’m ordering him east towards that place to support your approach. That move cuts their precious pipeline, but I don’t want that infrastructure destroyed. We’re going to need it after this is over. Once we determine what they are doing, then I make the decision on how and when we move into Iraq. Oberst Duren, that leaves you. Take 3rd Regiment right down the main road, and I’m adding both the Panzerjaegers and Pioneers to your force. Let’s see if they want to fight for that town.”
Beckermann was privy to plans Guderian had laid out before the battle. He knew that the main drive south was going to see a panzer division directed at Palmyra from the west, a force that would then come east to the river along that pipeline route. 4th Panzer had been in the lead, but Guderian had stopped it to rest and refuel. Right behind it, he had a very fresh 3rd Panzer Division, for they had come most of the way by rail. Detrained and ready to move on the morning of the 14th, he sent the division through the ground taken earlier by the 4th, now prepared to execute the plan he had devised.
As he predicted, the British used their rail lines to rapidly move forces north from Beirut, Palestine and Damascus. He had no intention of fighting for any of those cities, or allowing himself to get bogged down in costly and time consuming street fighting. Instead, he wanted to quickly extricate his mobile divisions, and then send the rest of Hube’s 14th Panzer Korps east in the wake of 3rd Panzer Division. The ground he now occupied would be held by the 49th Giebergs Korps, and to that end, Kruger was finally arriving on the main rail line with his 1st Mountain Division. He would now command three divisions of those tough mountain troops, and with no other aim but to hold the line, keep the British in check, and prevent them from any move north that could threaten the main supply base at Aleppo.
Thus far, everything was going according to plan. He was still one step ahead of the British in the footrace, and he hoped to stay there. Speed, he thought. One can never be too tidy if you really want to move. Speed in war is a dirty and chaotic business, but one horse given free reins will always get farther than three pulling a wagon. I already sent my thoroughbred east, and they have delivered Ar Raqqah right on schedule. But I cannot send just that single division into Iraq, strong as it may be. Now I must move to phase II of my plan, and speed is of the essence here—breakneck speed.
Even resting 4th Panzer for a day saw the General ill at ease and hankering to get moving again. For war was war, a wayward bride and one given to rash fits on a whim. Things would happen that would test the mettle of every unit involved, for the stakes were higher and most truly realized, in this world and all those that came after.
Part VII
Unforgiving Minutes
“If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!”
—Rudyard Kipling, If: A Father’s Advice to His Son
Chapter 19
Private Kaling Kapoor was very busy. He had gotten his hands on a British Bren gun, and he had spent the last hour figuring out how it worked. Now he was elated, rushing towards the forward lines where the platoon had been digging in and building fortified strong points. The Sergeant caught a blur of movement out of his right eye, and turned his head, seeing the Moonbird trying to squeeze past an ammo cart.
“Private Kapoor!” he shouted. “Stand where you are!” He strode quickly over, giving the young man a stern look. “Now where in the world did you get that?”
“From the British,” said the Private, beaming. “I’m going to use it to attack the Germans.”
“The British? They just gave that to you?”
“No Sergeant. I traded them for it—but I drove a very hard bargain, just one silly 2-inch mortar tube, and I didn’t even have to give them any ammunition!” His eyes were wide as he spoke, but he could see that Sergeant was in no way pleased.
“Just one 2-inch mortar….”
“They wanted a 3-inch tube, but I bargained very hard. Look Sergeant, it’s a Bren machine gun!”
“I can see that, you miserable goat! Where is the ammunition?”
“Right here. I insisted on three magazines.” The Private opened his pack to show off three of the classic curved top loading magazines that were characteristic of the Bren. It was a light weight, fast firing gun, using .303 ammo and very effective out to a range of 600 yards.
“Do you realize that gun is operated by a two man team? You are a trained sapper, not a machine gunner. What’s gotten into you?”
“But Sergeant, we already mined the bridges and set up wire. There was nothing else to do, but with this, I can attack them!”
“You will do no such thing. Take that gun to the Corporal over there immediately, and ask him which bunker he wants it in. Then come back here.”
“But Sergeant!”
“But nothing. Do as I have ordered. Right now!”
Frustrated, the Private saluted, and went trudging off to find his Corporal. The Sergeant shook his head. I will have to keep a much closer eye on that one, he thought. Wait until he gets back here and I ask him where he got that 2-inch mortar he traded. This is going to cost him a month’s salary. Maybe that will knock some sense into his silly head.
That afternoon the Germans did attack, dark uniformed men of the Prinz Eugen Mountain Division. They had come up the main road to Hamah and were trying to take the bridge over a small river, held by the men of the British 17th Brigade. The 32nd Indian Engineer battalion was right on the line, sandwiched in between the Northamptons on their left and the 2nd Seaforth Highlanders on their right. The Germans began with a good artillery prep against the Northampton Battalion, and then rolled it right over the Engineers.
With a full day’s hard labor, the Engineers had built some very sturdy strongpoints, and they weathered the shelling easily enough. But that was the first time Private Kapoor had been under direct fire, and he found it much more difficult than he imagined it would be. The Sergeant found him in a covere
d trench, standing boldly over the lad as he spoke to him.
“It’s lifting,” he said stoically. “Now the infantry comes. You just stay right there Packshee.”
The Moonbird stuck his head out of the trench, his face already stained with the dry earth. “If I had kept that 2-inch mortar, I could have fired it back at them, but that machine gun won’t do at all. You were right, Sergeant. I missed my chance.”
The Sergeant knew his Private was aching to strike a blow at the enemy, so he could say he fought hard here and earn his keep. As it was, all Packshee could do now was lay low, and he didn’t want the lad to feel like a coward, not during his first engagement.
The attack came in, and he unshouldered his rifle to fix his bayonet, waiting and watching behind a low sandbagged wall. The Northamptons took the worst of it, hit by two battalions of the 13th Mountain Regiment. Along the lines of the 32nd, they could hear the fighting loudly, but it wasn’t directed at their front. Then Private Kapoor pointed. They could soon see the British falling back, away from the bridge towards the outskirts of the town. He waited tensely, watching and listening, a well of fear building in the place that had once been filled with all his excitement and anticipation.
The British had been driven back! In all his years in India, whenever the British troops were near at hand, the Moonbird would run to watch them, the tall, broad shouldered men that had made such a presence in his homeland for many long decades. His admiration for those soldiers had been the reason he wanted to join the army, and now, seeing them rushing to the rear was a shaking experience.
“Sergeant!” he said with an exasperated expression. “We spent half the morning laying charges on that bridge. Why didn’t they fire them off? They let the Germans take just it!”
“Things happen in battle,” said the Sergeant. “Not everything goes as we might wish.”
Lions at Dawn (Kirov Series Book 28) Page 16
