by Scott Palter
Just then, another column of vehicles arrived. Greta, von Kleist-Konitz, and the naval contingent. The navy personnel went running madly up and down the docks, cutting wires to the explosive charges. They could not understand why these had not been set off. Greta was more practical. Marched herself up to Klaus and said, “Darling, get the locations of the food warehouses. Best we secure those at once.”
Klaus detailed Bain to the task. He had another bit of work in mind. He saw a lovely mast on top of a building. A mast with wires dangling from it. Probably running to a radio. He sent men to trace the wires, secure the communications equipment, and get back in contact with Gunter.
……….
Money-Penny heard the firing getting closer and closer to the main port . The intact port that British authorities had refused to destroy because of a mash of imperial pride and bureaucratic stubbornness. He sadly shook his head. This was dozens of times worse than Malta.
0830 hours local; 0730 hours CET
2 November 1940
Field Headquarters, Brigade Strauss; 5 km east of original penetration point
Gunter was finally off traffic direction duties. He had a radio call from Corps Command. They had intercepted a message from Alexandria in the clear, in which Major Steiner was claiming the capture of the port intact and over seven thousand prisoners. Before Gunter could reply, one of the radio clerks shoved a flimsy into his hand saying just that. When Gunter acknowledged this message, he was ordered by the staff officer he was talking to to stay on the line. The next voice he heard was his Corps Commander, von Manstein. “This is the same young man who took the Luqa airfield for you at Malta?”
“Yes, Herr General.”
“What were his orders, precisely.”
“He and Sturmbannführer Peiper were to take their two Schnell Battalions up the road until they encountered real resistance and then report in. Real resistance must have been farther east than we envisioned. We got a garbled message about difficulties but could not get them back for details. The Battalion I wanted to send to assess the situation has proven impossible to locate. One of my other Battalion commanders on his own initiative sent a company forward that claims contact with Peiper. Also claims a large British Battalion in the area.”
Von Manstein left Gunter hanging on the line. Gunter stood waiting at the position of attention. He might now have the rank of Brigadier. In his mind, Gunter was still a Feldwebel and von Manstein was a General of the Panzer Troops. When a superior wanted to think, you let him. Rank hath its privileges. “My staff will find someone else for traffic duty. You are to take as many of your units as you can find right now and motor to Alexandria. Any unit that needs ten minutes to prepare, is to be left behind to follow when they can. If this young man did half of what he is claiming, I need a superior officer on the spot. You will arrive at Alexandria, or radio with good reason why the road is blocked. You will check in with this headquarters every quarter-hour. Any questions?”
“No Herr General Corps Commander. I would advise you instructing General Rommel to forward to my column a radio detachment with better equipment than we have, so I can be sure of having enough range to reach you. I also request permission to leave my headquarters here to forward any messages they receive while I am in transit.”
“Approved. Von Manstein out.”
Gunter began issuing orders. As he did so Ivan Gorlov appeared. Before Ivan could get an explanation out for where he had been, Gunter instructed him to leave the ever-so-slow Matildas at this headquarters and move out with him to Alexandria. Gunter did violate the order in one small detail. He had the vehicles refueled first. As fast as they were topped off, they would depart. He himself left with a small detachment of Betar in fully-fueled vehicles of various types. What had Klaus gotten them all into this time?
0900 hours local; 0800 hours CET
2 November 1940
Gateway to the Royal Naval / Western Harbor, Alexandria, Egypt
Bain had come to fetch Hauptmann von Kleist-Konitz. There was an Egyptian that Bain felt the Wehrmacht officer should deal with. Von Kleist-Konitz had no idea why this boy pretending to be a soldier wished him to handle whatever trivial matter was involved, but on the other hand, he wasn’t doing much of anything else. All around him naval and NL people were busily turning what at dawn had been a long-famous British base, into a new center of the Reich’s expanded power.
Waiting for him at the gate was a man in an unfamiliar uniform. Bain made the introductions. The Egyptian had very little German. Von Kleist-Konitz had no Arabic. Both turned out to speak passable French. The man put out his hand to shake and introduced himself, “Chief Inspector Jabar Isa Gaafar, Special Branch, Alexandria Police. As the city is now in your hands, I thought it best to report here for instructions – my prior ones from our former British masters no longer seemed expedient to enforce. The young man tells me you are related to the German Supreme Commander.”
Things were starting to come into focus. How the cook’s son knew of his relationship to von Manstein could be explored another time. Brigadier Strauss seemed strangely adept at recruiting these sort of useful people. For now he gave the Egyptian a thorough once-over. The man was dressed as a proper European would be. The coloring was a little dark, but one could find worse in the Balkans or Iberia. “Yes. He’s my cousin. Our families have been intermarried since the time of your Fatimid Dynasty.” Ernst had a vague notion of how far back the family trees went, and an equally vague notion of the Fatimids as being the time of the early Crusades. He’d been forced to study history, but had little real interest in non-military events; and only a slightly greater concern for the dim recesses of his family tree. “I’m his personal representative here. This city will be a German Military Zone for the duration of this war, and perhaps afterwards as well.”
“The city, but not the rest of Egypt?”
“The rest of Egypt and the Canal are to be an Italian matter. I believe your King has been in contact with them.” Ernst had heard a rumor to that effect. “So I gather you wish your old job back? Perhaps a promotion as well?”
The Egyptian smiled cynically. He had no problem being seen as an opportunist, as that was in fact what he was. “Obviously, Excellency. This is a time of transition. Someone gains, someone loses. I prefer to advance myself.”
“I think we understand each other. What is wished is civic calm. Mobilize what forces you have connections with. I really don’t care if they were police yesterday. Everyone has cousins and nephews in need of employment. Create some sort of armband for the new recruits, and let us know here what the armband symbol is. What we wish is no looting, and proper traffic control. There are large German forces in transit. Perhaps some Italians as well. Post signs marking the route here.” He looked around to find Bain waiting. “Gefreiter Collins. You will take a platoon of your motorcyclists and accompany our friend here. You will oversee the signs being emplaced. You can use telephones to report on the streets remaining peaceable. You can also find any major warehouses, British military or civilian, and see them placed under guard until Leutnant Schwabe can arrive to start doing inventories.” Ernst turned back to his new Egyptian subordinate. “Compared to the British, you will find that we Germans have little use for formal law in times such as these. What matters is order and efficiency. So you are free to use force – including deadly force – but I will hold you personally responsible for results, especially violence or molestation towards civilized European residents. This includes British and others of their Imperial subjects. Our Führer wishes this to be a gentleman’s war, at least as regards whites. You know who your native criminal elements are. Tell the smart ones, that looting now will deprive them of the opportunities to sell liquor, women, and night life to half a million young servicemen who will be passing through here with money burning a hole in their pockets. For the rest, just round up the usual suspects. You don’t need proof or formal charges. Arrest them all and keep them under guard. Kill any who resist. Take
family members hostage, as needed. Any questions?”
The Egyptian just bowed and walked back to his car. Bain started barking orders, and two dozen motorcyclists all formed up behind him. Each bike had a side car with a passenger with an automatic weapon. The Egyptian car drove off, with the group led by Bain trailing. Von Kleist-Konitz walked back to the dock headquarters, whistling an old country dance tune from the backwoods of Pomerania where one of the family estates was. Time to find the female troops, and get them started on occupying the warehouses.
0930 hours local; 0830 CET
2 November 1940
What is now Peiper’s roadblock.
As they stayed in radio contact, Peiper was not surprised by Coxita’s arrival. Pio Ronconi was nominally in charge, but it was clear Peiper regarded the Italian Oberstleutnant’s woman as a colleague on a level above that of the Roman officer.
Jochen Peiper was not quite sure how to address Coxita. ‘The Oberstleutnant’s mistress’ as a title seemed disrespectful, but what was she? Coxita read his face. She was actually fairly good at social cues, when she was paying attention to anything beyond her own ideological psychodrama. “My military rank was Company Commissar, which neither Fascism nor National Socialism has a congruent version of. So, for today, what say I am Command Observer Arcau LaTorre? Oberstleutnant Di Salo sent me forward as his personal observer, in part because as a native of Barcelona I am fluent in Catalan. Capomanipolo Pio Ronconi is in command of our Company. Now, how may we be of assistance?”
Peiper relaxed. Pio Ronconi stayed silent, content to let Coxita take the lead as long as his rank was clearly respected. Coxita just stood there politely looking at Peiper until he remembered he was supposed to reply. “Major Steiner has taken the port – or so he says. Hauptmann von Kleist-Konitz has mobilized a native police force who supposedly are putting up signs to mark our route to join Steiner’s Battalion. Brigadier Strauss is en route with the bulk of the Brigade.”
“Did the Brigadier give any specific orders?” Coxita saw she would have to gently prod the SS officer.
“Not precisely. He asked if we were in a position to reinforce Major Steiner. I was trying to explain about the need to maintain the roadblock, about prisoners to guard … and he said he was getting a message from higher command he had to take. That was twenty minutes ago. Haven’t heard from him since.”
“Have you heard from Major Steiner?”
“Yes. He says he has his situation well in hand. Also that Gefreiter Collins would be waiting for us with a motorcycle detachment as we entered the city limits.”
Coxita looked back and forth between the two men. The answers seemed obvious … but while she was a veteran, in their eyes she was a woman, whose only use was flat on her back. “What if Capomanipolo Pio Ronconi were left here to man the roadblock? You have a pair of cannons. He has a full-strength Company of veterans. That should be enough to man a roadblock and guard a Company’s worth of prisoners.” Pio Ronconi nodded his acceptance. It was a simple task with clear limits. It was well within the capabilities of his formal training and limited experience. “Major Steiner seems to have left a detachment of Betar. Some are gun crews, from what I see. I’ll take command of the rest and accompany you to Collins.” She caught Peiper’s weird look at the mention of the Gefreiter. As if he knew the name should make sense but couldn’t quite place how he was to remember a mere corporal. “Sturmbannführer, the Gefreiter is the cook’s son. The one who served as a translator for you when you captured the two Boers and the Arab boy out in the desert.”
“Him? He was scarcely a lad.”
“He’s in his early teens and seems to have been given a bit of rank. I’m sure Major Steiner has a good reason for what he did. However, there are things we need to do. We should secure the telephone exchange and the radio station. If possible, the telegraph office as well. I’m sure Hauptmann von Kleist-Konitz has his new police well in hand, but even a platoon of real soldiers at each key location will help secure our control of the city.” Peiper gave her a look. She read the implied question. “The Republican Army I served in did have a few successful advances. This is how we were trained. I’ve left off the police headquarters, the main jail, and other things because we don’t have enough men yet.”
Peiper shook his head. The airhead concubine might have some skills outside the bedroom. And perhaps that was why a veteran field officer brought a bedmate on campaign … beyond the obvious. Jochen was a trained officer, but his course had not included these lessons.
1015 hours local; 0915 hours CET
2 November 1940
Mason’s new brigade position on Ruweisat Ridge; on what at dusk last night, had been the west end of the Australian Corps frontage
Two Italian CV-35’s were burning. Four more were backpedaling fast. Colonel Garth Mason had in a sense demoted himself back to company command. He led his counterattack force in person. With a scratch unit such as this, it was the only way. He was down to the professionals and the very best-motivated of the new recruits. The force had never trained as a unit. Men needed such training to trust each other in combat. The other way was the old-fashioned follow the leader instinct of warriors. He was the known face of command.
The last Italian attack had been a most near-run thing. The assault troops were damned good and their artillery support quite professional. They had overrun two strongpoints and only been halted by the Australian 25-pounder guns firing over open sights. The guns had also put paid to the quite pathetic Italian tanks. The crews were brave and well trained. Good men with garbage equipment. The professional side of Mason’s mind felt sorry for them. People in offices a continent away made bad decisions and sent good troops to their deaths. Had happened enough times to his army through the centuries. The RN got full appropriations and the army was told to make do, for budgetary reasons.
Mason had two bullet holes in his uniform and three shrapnel creases from grenades. They didn’t bother him. He’d bled for King and country before. Meantime he got his wounded to the rear and tried to find a way to cover the restored line while leaving himself at least 60 staunch men for the next counterattack. The Italians were relentless. They would be back.
……….
Major General Iven ‘Mr. Chips’ Mackay was up with his 2/4th Infantry Battalion. Observers had seen Mason’s position on the verge of collapse, and triggered the designated response force. Mr. Chips had come along to get a sense of who this Mason was and how much he should rely on the man’s ‘brigade’. So far he was liking what he saw of the man, but could not say the same about the unit. “Hello there, Mason. Good work, getting your line back.”
Mason was a combat veteran from the First War. He neither came to attention nor saluted. Both attracted snipers. “Thank you, sir. Position goes, with the next real attack. My brigade arrived here at battalion strength. I’ve since picked up two companies of odds and sods from the remains of 6th and 7th Divisions. Say it should be a five-company force. Except I’ve lost a bit over half of them so far. I’ve got a six-company front of seventy- or eighty-man companies, and my counterattack reserve is down to fifty or sixty men. What’s left are good men. They’ll die game. But beyond automatic weapons and a few Boys antitank rifles, all we have for firepower are the 25-pounders you loaned me. They are fighting hard, but we have been getting brigade-size attacks. As fast as we bloody one, the Italians just regroup and send in the next. Get your division out now, sir.”
“Sadly, that’s not happening till near dusk. Orders.” Mason nodded at what Mackay said. He’d given similar orders as a staff officer in the last war. Mackay went on. “I’m giving you this battalion. So you now have a real counterattack reserve.”
“Sir, you are condemning good men to death or the prisoner cages.”
“Needs must. My orders are to buy time for the rest of the corps to get away. When the order comes, there will be trucks for your lads as well.”
“We’ll be gone by then. Nice having met you, sir. A small fa
vor?” Mason reached into his tunic and took out a letter marked for his solicitor. “Could you pass this along to some officer you feel has a good chance of posting this in Palestine? Nothing to worry about in terms of the censors. Just telling my man to send along letters he has on file to my heirs and a few special friends.” Mason was mostly thinking of one special friend who had given him the best years of her young life. She’d get the cottage and money anyway, but also deserved the personal last declaration of feelings, of love. It had started as an ‘arrangement’, but damn if he hadn’t come to actually care for her, about her. She’d certainly cared more about him than his ever-so-proper wife ever had. That lady seemed to feel that delivering two healthy male heirs had fulfilled her contract. She had wanted a separate life. Golf, hounds, her gardens, her friends. No hint of scandal, and she would show up well-dressed for official functions, but beyond that his presence was neither needed nor wished for. She was born of a military family and had no wish for a version of her mother’s life. Mason had frequently asked her why had she married a career officer? Her answer was family tradition. But this was the modern age and she would no longer be strangled by such conventions.
Mackay nodded. He wasn’t sure anyone from his headquarters was making it out, but saying this would be a comfort to a brave officer doing his duty in a tight spot. He only hoped when his time came, he could face the end showing as good a front.
1030 hours local; 0930 hours CET
2 November 1940
Route between Alamein and Cairo
The First Libyan Division was attempting to traverse the 280 kilometers between their jump-off point and their target, the Egyptian capital of Cairo. General Pietro Maletti was with his advance guard group roughly halfway to the target. His main body and administrative services were in three disjointed packets strung out over 90 kilometers of bad road behind him. Depending on how one chose to view the situation, he was blocking an Australian Corps, or it was overrunning his small division. The last two hours had been endless rolling skirmishes. He was getting somewhat the better of these as he had set up his guns into battery, while the Australians mostly did not choose to dismount from their trucks. Instead they swerved around his men, punching holes where they could, to continue their progress east.
