Crescendo of Doom

Chapter 4

Raqqah on the upper Euphrates was the ancient capital of the old Abbasid Caliphate dating from the year 796. Centuries earlier it was known as Leontopolis under the Greeks, the “City of Leon,” where emperor Leo I reigned. The Greeks and Romans came and went, ant then came the Muslim warlord Iyad ibn Ghanm, who took the city in 639, for there were already holy Muslim monasteries there, where companions of Muhammad himself once lived. At one time it was bigger than Damascus, the center of an empire that reached into Central Asia, and stretched all the way to the deserts of North Africa.

In modern times Raqqah was also the seat of the dark Islamic rose of power that the West came to call ISIS. First arising as a resistance movement against the Assad regime in a shadowy evolution of the “Arab Spring,” ISIS soon morphed into the most effective paramilitary Islamic militant group yet seen, sweeping out of their strongholds in northern Syria and into Iraq, where the thin national boundary drawn by the post WWI Sykes–Picot Agreement was declared null and void, and a new modern Caliphate was pronounced. Utilizing brutal terror tactics that were flashed across the world’s computer screens on the Internet, ISIS soon drew a hard response from the U.S., and flurries of ship fired Tomahawk cruise missiles found targets in and around the city.

In 1941, the only cruise missiles in the world were still aboard the battlecruiser Kirov, a strange new mercenary for another empire that was trying to claim the place as its own. British and commonwealth troops were striving to bring the once great domain of the Abbasid regime under the authority of the Crown, but here there enemies would not be the dashing Sindi horsemen of the 9th Century, nor the swarthy, armored Azarbayjani infantry beneath their black banners. Instead they would be facing the tough, battle tested troops of Fallschirmjäger Sturm-Regiment 1, commanded by Oberst Hermann-Bernhard Ramcke.

He was a short, cheeky, round faced man, eyes alight when he smiled. A newcomer to the Luftwaffe, he had first entered military service through the navy as a ship’s boy in 1905. Ramcke also fought with German Marine-Infanterie near Flanders in WWI, wounded five times. As if he could not get enough of the harsh cruelty of war, he joined Western troops attempting to interfere in the burgeoning Russian Revolution, fighting against Bolshevik forces led by Sergei Kirov in 1919. He had only just transferred to the Luftwaffe, less than a year ago in July of 1940, when Kurt Student picked him to join his 7th Flieger Division.

It was a fateful move for him, for he would later go on to command the elite 2nd Fallshirmjager Division in Italy and Russia, one of the toughest fighting German divisions of the war. He already had a taste of this new war in the lightning swift assaults that took both Malta and Cyprus from the British, and was now thinking Crete might be his next assignment when news came that his unit had been selected for a new deployment.

“The Führer has authorized increased German support for the Vichy French in Syria,” Student had told him. “The British have been busy putting down the rebellion of Rashid Ali and his so called Golden Square over in Iraq. To do this they moved considerable forces from India, at least two divisions. Now, with this big operation underway against Damascus and Beirut, they think they are going to swing up the Euphrates, take Aleppo, and cut the major rail links into Turkey. So your men will go here, to Dier Ez Zour.”

‘The entire regiment?” Ramcke thought it was a long way to move his troops on such short notice. “We are still consolidating on Cyprus at Nikosia.”

“Don’t worry about that. What’s left of the Cypriot resistance has fled to the highlands. I will dispatch a battalion to see about them. Pull together your recon battalion, and a company of engineers. That is all you need take. Von Sponek already has the 65th Airlanding Regiment south of the river. You will land to the north. There is a road there that extends up to Mosul, and the British may come from that direction. They must not be allowed to move up the river further towards Raqqa, or to cross the river to attack Dier Ez Zour. Things did not go so well for the 65th in Holland, so put some backbone in the men. If necessary, blow the bridge over the Euphrates.”

It had been necessary.

Within hours of his arrival on the scene north of Dier Ez Zour, Ramcke learned that the British were, indeed, pushing two columns toward the city. One advanced directly up the Euphrates, and the 65th Regiment was soon engaged so heavily that its commander was killed, leaving Ramcke as the senior officer on site. Yet he realized he was on the wrong side of the river. So he made the decision to take his troops south of the Euphrates and have his engineers demolish the bridge. Then word came that a third British column was now advancing on the town along the road to Palmyra, and Ramcke knew his forces would soon be badly outnumbered, and under attack from three quarters.

It was then that he received Von Sponek’s orders to withdraw to Raqqah. “Use any vehicle you can get your hands on,” he told him on the radio. “But get your men north as soon as possible. There are British commandos at Raqqah! Take the place and hold it.”

The transport available was fairly lean, but given casualties sustained against the British 10th Indian Division, they had collected enough trucks to move most of the men. For those that had no vehicles, a special night operation was mounted by landing nine JU-52s on the desert roads north of the town, as the airfield was now under British artillery fire. It was a daring operation, but “Auntie Ju” would not fail her men that day, and the nine planes all got safely away, including Ramcke and most of his Recon Battalion.

The last troops to leave the position at Dier Ez Zour, he would be the first to arrive up north that night at Raqqah. Word had come that British commandos were already at the airfield, so the JU-52s that carried them also stored fresh parachutes for the men.

“Well, this is a real bitter cup of tea,” said Ramcke to Oberleutnant Adolf Feldmann, a special agent of the Abwehr attached to his unit. He had been in Iraq, trying to organize resistance against the British in coordination with the Brandenburgers, and he had a troop of twenty of those elite commandos with him when he arrived at Dier Ez Zour to join the Germans there.

“A night parachute landing northeast of the airfield—what a nightmare. Have a look at this map! There are hills there. We’ll have to land well beyond those, and well away from the river. The last thing I need is to have half my men in the water and marshes. It will take us an hour to find the men in the dark and get organized. In the meantime, god only knows what the British will be doing. They had the pluck to mount this very same operation last night, and they’ve taken the airfield.”

“Then they’ll have men on those hills as well,” said Feldmann. “They overlook the airfield and town. You’ll have to take them as your first objectives.”

“I don’t like it,” Ramcke shook his head. “We’ll have until dawn to secure the place, but we don’t know what we’re up against.”

“It cannot be much,” Feldmann reassured him. “My Brandenburgers would be more than a match for any commandos the British may have sent there. Your battalion is just along for the ride!” His smile conveyed his confidence, but Ramcke was not so certain.

The drone of the JU-52 was little solace as the planes flew north in the dark. All the men were busy getting into their parachute harnesses, and stuffing weapons and equipment into landing canisters. Ramcke watched them, undaunted by the fact that this was a retreat, and already seeing it as a new attack on just another objective.

“You there, Sergeant,” he said watching the men with the canisters. “No rifles there—every man is to carry his own weapon. Use the canisters only for the machineguns, mortars and ammunition. I want the men ready to fight as soon as they hit the ground. Understood?”

He had learned a few things from the action on Malta and Cyprus. It had been German doctrine to drop all weapons in canisters, which left the men with only their sidearm when they hit the ground. That wasn’t going to happen this time. He knew the remainder of the 65th Luftland Regiment, and the other two companies of his battalion, would be moving all night, but did not expect they would reach the town until well after dawn given the condition of the roads.

At least we managed to slip away without the British realizing what we were up to, he thought. They damn near caught the whole of the 65th Regiment in a nice little cauldron. We might have held, but for how long? I’ve little in the way of artillery here, and only a few mortars and recoilless rifles for heavy weapons. This whole operation was mounted with too much haste and too little thought.

“Don’t worry,” said Feldmann. “I had men through that town some months ago. The whole place sits north of the river. There are escarpments to the south, and that terrain will be all but impassible for the British lorries. See here…” He fingered the map to indicate a position southeast of the town along the river. “See how the river bends close to the escarpments? The flood plain narrows there, and that will make a nice bottleneck for the boys from the 65th Regiment to hold up the British. This place is very defensible.”

“I suppose so, after we take it. Remember the British are there now. I thought the French had left a garrison, but they pulled all those troops south towards Damascus when they heard we were coming. And I’ll say another thing,” Ramcke shook his head. “Things aren’t all rosy to the south either! Have you heard what happened to 9th Panzer Division?”

“I read the reports. I’m Abwehr.”

“Yes? Well what was in your reports about these new British tanks? They went right through our boys, and Rommel got the same treatment a month ago in North Africa.”

“A new tank,” said Feldmann. “I’ll admit we knew nothing about it, and I’m told it is considerably bigger than their old Matildas. But don’t expect any here, Ramcke. Wolff held off the British at Palmyra easily enough, and you can do the same.”

“Wolff had the entire 16th Regiment come up behind him as a timely reinforcement,” said Ramcke. “Those were the troops that actually got the job done in Holland, so it’s no wonder the British left us Palmyra.”

“And your boys were the troops that got the job done at Malta and Cyprus. Why the long face, Herr Oberst? Remember—the 7th Machinegun Battalion is also coming up from Homs through Aleppo. In fact, they might be very near the town now. You have the leading edge of Sturm-Regiment One here. Lightning at the edge of the storm! This will be no problem, I assure you.”

Yes, it all sounded good on paper, Ramcke thought, and the map, sketchy as it was, did show favorable terrain for the defense once they had control of the town. After all, how many commandos could the British have there? Feldmann was probably correct. Yet something in his belly remained unsettled that night, an uncomfortable feeling as the amber lights winked on in the long cabin, indicating the planes were nearing their planned dropping point.

“Ten minute warning,” said Feldmann. “I have just one section of my Brandenburgers here. The rest are on plane nine. May I have the honor of taking my men out first, Herr Oberst?”

“The honor? It’s all yours Feldmann. I didn’t know these were your men, but they can act as pathfinders.”

It was then that they heard it, a dull explosion far ahead, and bright light flashed in the sky. Feldmann pressed his head against the side window, trying to see what was going on. “We’re under attack!” He shouted, then was quickly up with a terse hand signal to his Brandenburgers.

Ramcke looked and saw that one of the lead transports had been hit, and was already falling from the sky, its wing blazing with fire, men already leaping from the fuselage for their lives. How had the British discovered them like this in the dark? Could it be they moved fighters into the airfield at Raqqah for this very reason? He knew he now had only seconds to get his men to safety.

“Everyone up! Make ready to jump!

He saw the gunner on the MG-15 machinegun, its black barrel pointed out one of the open square windows looking for targets, but seeing nothing to fire at. Then the sky lit up with another explosion, and this time Ramcke saw what was happening. Something was in the sky, moving like a sleek shadow and then disappearing into a cloud. It was unlike anything he had seen, and it had fired a searing rocket at the formation. Another plane had been struck, its right wing engine blown off and the wing itself careening away as the plane tipped over and fell.

“Come on!” he shouted. “Jump! Jump for your lives!”

The cabin light dimmed to deep red, indicating that they had just reached the edge of the intended drop zone. Then the wild moment came. The doors were slid open, and one by one the men darkened the portal with their bulk, tall, strong soldiers, young and proud. Out they went, jumping as if they were leaping from a sinking ship. As each man went, he fell into the chaos of the scene outside.

Feldmann was first out, just as he had wished. Behind him went the five black uniformed Brandenburgers, then the men of Ramcke’s HQ squad. His company was going to be scattered all over the desert below, those that survived. There were 18 men on each of the nine planes, and he had already seen two go down in flaming wrecks.

The men pushed forward, the urgency of the moment moving them on. Out they went, falling like leaves on the wind of a storm, into the black Syrian night. Ramcke reached the door, saw the chaotic scene framed there, then literally cast his fate to the wind in a tumultuous, harrowing fall.

You’re too old for this Hermann, he told himself, a man of 52 years in 1941. He had only just completed his parachute qualification course the previous year when he joined Student’s troops. Tonight he was supposed to make a nice bumpy landing on the desert somewhere, not go plummeting into the dark of a night air action. Then he felt the stiff jolt as his parachute deployed, his breath coming hard, and a moment of exhilaration. His life now hung by those long cords, buoyed by the fluttering chute, drifting on the wind.

Above he could see men streaming out of the last plane, and then he saw something come streaking in at the JU-52, plunging right into the fuselage like a fiery harpoon. The bright fire of the explosion lit up the night, sending ripples of color on the flanks of thin clouds. He saw the sky peppered with the dark shapes of other drifting parachutes, men dangling beneath them as they fell.

What was it Feldmann had just said to him? Lightning at the edge of the storm! A rallying cry to bolster his spirits, but to see his men there now, hanging there at the mercy of the marauding enemy, he realized it was someone else’s lightning in the sky this time.

Off in the distance he could see the shadowy square shapes of buildings, and the glimmer of moonlight on the winding bend of the Euphrates. The evening crescent was just rising. Then the ground seemed to come up much faster than he expected, and he was tumbling down onto the hard desert floor in a bruising landing. His parachute scudded along before finally collapsing on itself as Ramcke struggled to get up, feeling the bite of pain from his left ankle. Thank god nothing was broken, and he was able to stand, alive and still in one piece as he slipped out of his parachute harness, struggling to get his wits about him.

One minute he was on the plane talking with Feldmann over the drone of the engines, then the wild fall, and now the relative quiet of the desert night. Three planes had fallen of the nine, and as cruel as his fate had been, it was better than that which had befallen the men on those stricken JU-52s. Two other men fell close to him, and he started for the nearest, knowing his job was now to collect his company as best he could, and get them into a position to make an advance on the town.

It was going to be a very long night.

Chapter 5

Fedorov heard the planes in the sky, his eyes squinting into the inky night as he saw the first rockets fire. The mobile force had landed at Raqqah several hours ago, ready to concentrate their full force to try and seize the airfield and bridges over the Euphrates. To their great surprise, they found the settlement largely empty of enemy troops. Most all of the French garrison there had been pulled south to the renewed fighting around Nebek, north of Damascus. Only a few desert cavalry units had remained, and when the sleek X-3 helos made their first runs over the town, this last remnant was soon taking to anything they could ride and hastening away as fast as they could.

After overflying the airfield, the team descended there, the Russian Marines storming out in four groups led by Troyak, Zykov, Chenko and Popski. They fanned out, quickly securing the tarmac and hanger area, and then making their way into a few buildings that served as an administrative facility, and a squat makeshift control tower. They found the base empty, but saw signs of recent occupation, even a cup of tea that was still warm in the admin building offices. Apparently the French authorities had also made a hasty retreat.

“We’ll need to make sure there’s no fifth column still in the town,” said Fedorov. “When the Argonauts land, we should sweep the whole place, but I want to see the bridges first.”

Troyak led the way, with Zykov’s team in support, leaving Chenko and Popski to hold the airfield and guard the vital KA-40. The X-3s lingered above, until they had satisfied themselves that there was no threat near the town. Then they made for the airfield to set down, and the Argonauts soon reinforced the ground teams with another thirty men led by Lieutenant James Byng. A distant relation to the storied Earls of Strafford who bore that family name, Byng was all military. He came to the Fairchild security team aboard Argos Fire after a five year stint with SAS, a tall, well muscled man, sandy haired, trim, and thoroughly professional.

Popski met the man at the airfield, admiring the black suited Argonauts as they assembled there.

“Half the Russians have gone off to have a look at the bridges,” said Popski. “The place was all but deserted when we arrived, but we can’t count on that for long. We may have surprised them, but they’ll know the value of this town just as we do. So we’ll need to plan our defense here. Word is that the Germans have had enough at Dier ez Zour, but that means they’ll be heading our way, and they could be here by tomorrow. Have a look at my map, Lieutenant, and see what you think.”

Byng removed his goggles and gloves, his automatic weapon still slung over his shoulder. The map was not the sort of well detailed document he might be accustomed to, but it depicted most of the key terrain features near the town.

“This high ground north of the airfield will have to be occupied,” he said at once, and Popski nodded.

“I thought as much,” he returned. “The rise northeast of the field looks to be a good place to set up our mortars. It overlooks both the town and airfield.”

“Good enough, and you might post a squad on that hill as well.” Byng pointed to an elevation due north from their position. “You’ve only twenty men?”

“Twenty-one, counting the pilots. We lost a man at Palmyra.”

“Well I was thinking to take my Argonauts south to the river. We can put some defense into the town, and hold the bridges. Your men might best be held here to cover the airfield and that high ground. We were heavy on missiles this loadout, so I’ve only brought three ten man squads. But we’ll be breaking into teams of five men each. I’ll designate them Argo one thru six.”

“We’ll do the same,” said Popski, “four fire teams. I’ll post our team Chenko with me here to hold this field. Troyak and Zykov will occupy that high ground.”

Byng looked over the hills again, the concern on his face obvious. “We won’t be able to hold here for very long,” he said frankly. “You can put ten men on that high ground, but they won’t be able to stop any determined attack. And that town is the real problem. If they get men on the east side of the river, they’ll be able to approach through this area here.” He pointed to the map at a place labeled Samara. “They’ll come through the town like water through a sieve. If I have a fire team covering each bridge, and one in reserve, that leaves me only fifteen men to watch that flank and cover the town itself.”

“Yes, it’s not a pretty picture,” said Popski, “but we’ll have to touch it up as best we can.”

“Very well, Colonel. By the way, let me say it’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. I’ve…” Byng smiled. “Let’s just say I’ve read about you and that private little army you set up in the western deserts.”

“What? Popski’s Private Army?” Popski always liked the sound of that. “Shan Hackett gave me that handle, though I’ve yet to sink my teeth into the business. This bit here is a good workout for the time being. One day I’ll get back to Egypt and Libya. If you’re ever at large there, look me up, Lieutenant. I’ve seen your blokes go at it. Damn good men.”

“That they are, sir.”

“I’ll let the Russian Captain know what we’ve planned, and fill his ear with your comments as well. For my money, I would rather see us concentrate the whole force available on one objective, like this airfield here. It’s really the principle supply point. Roads east and south are long and hard, and there’s no rail connection to this place. So any supplies will have to be flown in, and this field is vital for that. I’m sure he’ll agree. He’s damn touchy about that helicontraption of his there, and seeing what you lads can do in those little birds of yours, I can understand why.”

“Yes sir. Nothing like knowing LT Ryan is up in those X-3s on overwatch,” said Byng.

It was just after dusk when Fedorov returned with Troyak and Zykov, relieved at the bridge defense by Byng and his Argonauts.

“The Lieutenant says you have a plan,” he said to Popski.

“I suppose so, Captain. The thing is this—we’ve only fifty men here, the whirlybirds aside. When the Germans come, they’ll have an entire regiment, and that Lieutenant Byng is of a mind that the town presents too much cover to stop any determined advance. I’ll have to agree with him. If they get even as much as a company in there, they can move house to house, and it will be damn near impossible to hold them off for very long.”

“I understand,” said Fedorov. “But the British will be close on the heels of the Germans when they get here.”

“True enough,” said Popski. “But that road along the river is easy to hold. The escarpments to the west restrict any good ground for movement to a nice little bottleneck. Jerry can set up shop there and post small delaying forces that could hold our lads up a good long while.”

“Don’t forget Brigadier Kingstone’s column is to the south,” Fedorov reminded. “He’s well inland from the river approach, and chances are he may get here first.”

“That would be much desired,” said Popski, though he had real misgivings. “That’s hard ground south,” he said quietly. “Wouldn’t want Kingstone to get lost out there, would we?” He gave Fedorov a knowing eye, and his point was well made.

That was the real question, thought Fedorov. Could the British get here with enough force in time? Would this be just another futile holding effort, waiting for relief that might never arrive? And how many men might we lose here tomorrow if we do try to hold? I’m counting on Kingstone’s flying column, but Popski is correct. It may never get here. Should I go up with the KA-40 and look for him tonight? Perhaps we could air ferry some of his troops here?

The falling sun was soon driving the first shadows of the evening in on his troubled thoughts and, just after dusk, the pilot of the KA-40 reported he had airborne contacts on radar from the south.”

“From the south?” Fedorov thought they might be British planes out of Habbaniyah, but he was wrong. The first appearance of the enemy would not come by the river road, or the thin tracks that led west to Aleppo, or north to Turkey. It would come from the flights of JU-52s that Ramcke had managed to collect for his recon battalion, and it was coming that very moment.

“We’d better get a couple X-3s up,” he suggested, and Popski ran off to Lieutenant Ryan to raise the alarm. Soon the fitful whirl of the sleek rotors was clouding the field with blown dust, and two helos rose into the gathering darkness like shadowy birds of prey. Some minutes later they saw the missiles in the air, the first bright explosion and fire of a kill, and they knew the fight was joined. The low drone of aircraft engines sounded hollow, and Fedorov pinched off his collar microphone to signal Troyak on the high ground overlooking the airfield, even as a second explosion ripped the darkness on the near horizon. The killing had started.

“Sergeant Troyak,” he said. “Get your men ready. They’re coming.”

Ramcke was some time getting his men together to see what he had left after the chaotic night drop in the desert northwest of the town. His engineer platoon was nowhere to be found, most likely on the first plane to be hit. Of the 162 men that had boarded the planes, he was able to account for only 96 in that first hour on the ground. He had a mixed force to begin with, mostly the recon platoons plucked from the Regiment’s companies for this special mission, and re-designated the Luftland Sturm Recon Battalion, a formation that had never existed prior to his deployment here. In spite of the name, his platoons really only amounted to a good reinforced company when they set out, and now he had apparently lost a third of his force in the wild night drop.

Oberleutnant Jung’s Platoon had come through unscathed, and Altman’s Platoon was well accounted for. Hoefeld’s pioneers were missing to a man, and Schulte could only present with twelve men from his platoon. Reinhardt had collected his men from the 8th Schwere Company, which was all the heavy firepower they would have that night, three heavy machine guns and three 81mm mortars, half of what that company was authorized to carry. The rest were gone, or lost in the darkness somewhere. He would not really know the score until sunrise, but there was no time to wait on the dawn. He had to get his men assembled and into that town, or up on that high ground overlooking the place, and that was what he set out to do. He found Feldmann and his Brandenburgers, all intact with a group of twenty men.

“Alright, Feldmann. You were so confident just a moment ago. What was in your damn reports about those new British rockets? I’ll be lucky to have a hundred men alive here after that attack.”

Feldmann gave him a disparaging look, clearly shaken by the experience of the night drop, though his morale was undaunted. “Let me take my men into the town,” he said. “You’ll want those hills as soon as possible. He pointed to the knobby high ground overlooking the place, his eyes still darkly scanning the sky when they heard a distant thrumming sound.

“What was that aircraft?” Ramcke asked. “Did you see anything when you jumped?”

“Just the toes of my boots,” said Feldmann. “The ground came up much too fast.”

“I got a glimpse of something, but it wasn’t a British fighter plane. What is going on here, Feldmann? Tanks that can smash right through a panzer division, rockets launching from ships and planes—where did the British get these weapons? What has the Abwehr been doing for the last year? Why haven’t we heard about any of this?”

“I would like to tell you I know everything Herr Oberst,” said Feldmann, adjusting the strap of his sub-machinegun. “But my pockets are not quite big enough.”

“Well,” said Ramcke, “no one expects you to carry the whole world in your pockets, Feldmann, just a good bit of what we might be facing here would be sufficient. In another hour we’ll see what we have in front of us. Then we deal with anything you may have overlooked.”

He turned to a Sergeant and ordered the men to assemble by squads. “That hill,” he pointed to the shadow in the distance. “I want a recon team there at once. Hold three squads ready to assault. If the British have commandos here, they will not have overlooked the importance of that ground. Tell Reinhardt to get his mortar teams ready, and that will likely be his first target. I will follow Feldman to the edge of the town and set up my command post there. Send runners as soon as you can sort the situation out.”

The men moved now with well practiced urgency. This was what they had trained for, their stock in trade. For some it had been their third or fourth combat jump of the war, survivors of Holland, Malta and Cyprus. Ramcke watched them move, hefting their weapons and ammunition, tightening the straps of their characteristic helmets, lacing up a loosened boot. They were ready to fight, he thought, and woe betide the British tonight.

He looked to Feldmann, seeing the man nod and salute as he led his Brandenburgers off towards the town. “I will keep you informed, Herr Oberst,” he said over his shoulder with a wink. “This will not take long.” His irrepressible smile followed, and he was off, the black uniformed Brandenburgers following in a smart line that was soon swallowed by the night.

Ramcke put his hands on his hips, watching his unit unfold, the squads fanning out, harangued by the hard commands of the other officers and Sergeants. The men moved on instinct, a reflex for war and combat that was well honed. Perhaps Feldmann is correct, he hoped. After all, how many commandos could the British have here, twenty, fifty? He had made a very good guess, but his thoughts were still harried by that shadow he had seen slipping into the clouds, and the searing fire of those rockets that had taken down three of his nine planes.

We must get to that airfield, he knew. That is where those fighters must have come from, and that must be my principle objective here. I am told the 7th Machinegun Battalion is coming from Aleppo. When will they arrive? Don’t count on them doing your work for you, he chided himself. The airfield is north of the river, and the main road to Aleppo is to the south of that barrier. The 7th will have to take one of the two bridges if they want to get into the town, so all the real objectives of worth beyond that are mine for the moment.

Time to get busy.

Chapter 6

Troyak saw the Germans coming on his night vision goggles. He was noting the movement of the men carefully, seeing them deploy, luminous green shapes in the eerie dark. A recon team and three squads in waiting, he noted. He gave a quiet hand signal to his fire team, just five men here on the high knob of Hill 272, and another five under Zykov on Hill 264 to the northwest. Neither team was adequate to the task it had been given, but at least he had men on both hills, which was better than yielding one to the enemy without a fight.

Yet when he saw the forces deploying below, he knew his five man team was going to be easily flanked. They simply could not cover all angles and approaches to the hilltop, so he immediately called for Chenko to bring up his team from the airfield and cover the ground between the two knobs.

His own grim prediction was soon to be proven true. The Germans moved in Altmann’s platoon, along with all the men in Reinhardt’s Schwere platoon, which had assembled to support this attack. Troyak could see them moving, and settling into depressions in the ground below, and he instinctively knew what he was looking at. They were selecting good firing positions for any heavy weapons they might have, and once he had allowed the enemy to settle on ground of its choosing, he called Popski at the airfield.

“We’ll be under attack soon,” he said. “They’ll probe my position first, and pay for that, but they’ll follow with mortar fire soon after. I’ll send you a grid position for our mortar team. Are the helicopters ready?”

They were.

Two of the three X-3s were revving up again to provide fire support that Troyak believed would be the decisive edge here. The third X-3 had departed south to reconnoiter the German advance, and pick up more fuel from their operating base. They would use only half as much as they could carry by making the flight down and back to the T3 Pump station, and so for the moment their airborne fire support was limited, though even one X-3 was a formidable addition to his firepower here.

On Troyak’s order the Podnos 82mm mortars opened the game, the first rounds whining in to fall on the German positions below. He could see the men reacting as they should, going to ground, yet still advancing under any cover they could find. They know enough not to get stuck under that fire, he thought. These are well trained men, and they’ll outnumber us three to one or better for this first engagement. No matter. We have the firepower to stop them here.

His confidence was not unwarranted. Just as the enemy began to answer with their own 5cm and 8.1cm mortars, the first of the X-3s was up and over their position, quickly finding the enemy mortar teams and moving to attack. The hiss of the rocket pods soon followed, and would be a hard shock to the Germans when the missiles hit home.

The Hydra 70 had an old pedigree, developed from plans laid down for a distant cousin in the late 1940s after the war. The Mark 40 was a fin folding unguided aerial rocket made by the U. S. Navy, serving in both the Korean and Vietnam Wars, and the newer Hydra 70 had the same simple design. The Navy was now deploying a guided version using lasers, but the X-3s had the older rockets, all unguided, but with a good 8 kilometer strike range. They had two seven tube pods mounted that day, which could use single or ripple fire to engage targets. Unguided or not, the optics on the X-3 were going to get the missiles where Lieutenant Ryan and his sidekick Tom Wicks wanted them, and that was right on the three 81mm mortar positions in Reinhardt’s Schwere platoon. They put three missiles on each position, getting all three mortars and then angling to look for other targets of opportunity.

“Good shooting Tommy!” said Ryan when he saw the results.

“Always aim to please,” said Wicks in return. “What’s that yonder at about three-o-clock?”

Ryan pivoted his X-3, the powerful high resolution optics and cameras painting the ground where Wicks was pointing. He could clearly see the Germans deploying another weapon, and then it fired, sending a round out toward the high ground that smashed into the shoulders of the hill.

“Looks like some kind of Recoilless Rifle. Take it down, Wicky.”

“Right-O, LT.” Wicks fired, three more rockets snaking in to the target in short order. The resulting explosions blasted the weapon, sending it careening up and away from its original firing position.

“A good hard knock, Tommy.”

“That’s why they call me Tommy Knocker,” said Wicks. “Shall we give them a taste of the minigun?”

Troyak saw the rockets go in with lethal accuracy, and soon after the snarl of the minigun raked the ground below. It fell on the men of Reinhardt’s platoon, inflicting heavy casualties where they scrambled on the relatively open ground. The Germans had finally recovered from the shock and were now directing machinegun fire at the helo, forcing Ryan to bank and climb away from the scene. But the job had been done, and the heavier support weapons in the Schwere platoon had been taken out, as Troyak expected. Now it would come down to guts and small arms fire, but the Russians had plenty of both, and now possessed the heavier mortars, the Germans having no more than a single light 5cm tube in each platoon.

Over on Hill 264, Zykov watched the battle begin with a big grin on his face. While a part of him whispered that the fight was unfair, offering due respect to the Germans who had to face their modern weaponry and firepower, the greater part sided with that grin. When men were out there with rifles, and coming to kill you, then any advantage on your side was welcome without scruples or any regrets. He knew that the enemy would hit them with any weapon they had, and so the Russians would do the same, no questions asked.

In that passing moment, he thought of Captain Karpov, the hard fighting commander of the ship through so many battles at sea. Karpov knew what Zykov accepted as a matter of course. You hit the enemy hard, knock him down, and if he gets up to fight again, then that’s your fault. That was the cold rationale of war, and every warrior subscribed to it on one level or another.

When the X-3’s climbed they suddenly saw something on the ground to the west, and Ryan veered in that direction. “Argo Leader, this is X-1 overwatch. Be advised of a truck column north of the river and inbound on your position, over.”

“Copy on that, X-1. Care to form the welcoming committee?”

“Will do, Argo Leader. Ryan out.”

The column Ryan had spotted were the first arrivals of the German 7th Motorized Machinegun Battalion, dispatched to this position some time ago by the division commander, von Sponeck. They had driven all day and into the night to reach Raqqah. One company had found a bridge just barely able to support the weight of the trucks, and with a little shoring up from the engineer platoon, they made it across. The rest of the battalion was on the main road south of the river, which would lead to the better bridges now being held by the Argonauts.

Ryan decided to have a look around, signaling the other X-3 to scout south and then rejoin his bird over the river. They soon began to piece together a picture of the gathering fight, as all forces in the region were now sending troops to this place, marching to the sound of the guns. Due south, they spotted what looked to be another German force at first, but when Ryan reported the movement to Popski, the gritty Colonel simply smiled.

“No Germans will be coming out of that desert,” he said. “Take another look. That has to be Kingstone’s flying column up from Palmyra.”

It was.

The first elements of this scout force were arriving with the fast moving motorized cavalry units. Glubb Pasha had scouted the way, and was also leading in a detachment of his Arab Legion. This force would soon run afoul of the advancing companies of the 7th Machinegun Battalion south of the river, and another small action would begin there in the pre-dawn hours.

In the meantime, Ryan was rejoined by the other X-3 helo, designated X-2 for this mission, and together they applied the same deadly medicine to the oncoming truck column north of the river. The Hydra 70’s took out the lead truck, stopping the column in its tracks as all the infantry spilled out and bled onto the ground around the trucks, looking for cover. Wicks shot up two more trucks, and then the minigun took its pound of flesh out of the column, raking the snake’s back with its snarling bite.

The Germans were stunned by the attack, as it seemed that lightning was simply flashing out of the sky at them. They could hear some kind of aircraft overhead, the hard thump of the rotors and growl of the helo engines, but they could not see the beasts that were gouging them now. After those first moments of shock and awe, the Germans soon reacted by opening up with every machinegun they had, nine MG-32s in this single company, and they were raking the sky in all directions, the hot tracer rounds streaming up like a fountain of molten lead.

“That’s done it,” said Wicks.

“Good enough, Tommy,” said Ryan. “Let’s get round to the south along the river and see what’s there.” He knew that was the main axis of the German retreat from Dier ez Zour, and the helos swept across the river, overflying the budding meeting engagement between Kingstone’s men and the other two companies of the 7th Machinegun battalion. Off to the southeast, they soon saw another long line of an advancing column. A motorcycle platoon led the way, followed by what looked to be a full battalion of motorized infantry, the first arrivals of the 65th Regiment.

“How many rockets left in those pods, Wicky?”

“I fired four salvoes of three, so I’ve only got one left in each pod,” said Wicks. “Time for a reload, but we’ve still got the minigun.”

“Aye, two rockets won’t do much good here. There will be more behind this lot too, but it’ll be dawn before that column gets up north. Let’s hold what we’ve got and get back to the fight near the airfield.”

“What, and help the Russkies?”

“Our allies this time out me boyo, so see that you put those last two rockets on the Germans.”

Ramcke’s men reorganized and tried that hill while they still had at least the cover of darkness, but Troyak had more for them than they wanted. They had two RPGs, five AK-94K assault rifles, and one autogrenade launcher, and that weapon was enough to decide the issue and stop the attack. The rate of fire was almost as good as a heavy caliber machine gun, only the 30mm grenades packed a much greater wallop when they hit.

So the men of Altman’s platoon learned the same hard lesson that Wolff’s men had been taught early when they tried to storm the high fortress at Palmyra. The fight had come down to firepower and guts, and though the Germans made a brave attack, firepower trumped their hand, and they were forced back with heavy losses.

Leutnant Jung’s platoon attempted to flank the hill, moving to the south and making for the northern outskirts of the town, but Byng had been closely monitoring the fighting and had moved one of his two reserve fire teams into the town there to plug the gap. Jung’s men ran into a well laid ambush, and the Argonauts stopped the flanking attempt, forcing the Germans to take cover in any building they could get to.

Further south, Feldmann’s Brandenburgers were advancing through the suburb of Samara close by the river. A second platoon from the Schwere company, and the men from Schulte’s platoon were on their right with Ramcke’s Headquarters unit. It was not long before the Brandenburgers realized that the British were in the main town ahead, most likely guarding a small foot bridge over a canal that bounded the town on the east.

“They’ll be watching that bridge,” he said after reaching Ramcke’s HQ shack, an old, weathered barn just outside the east edge of Samara. “Shall I organize an attack while we still have darkness?”

“Don’t bother. From every report I’ve received the British seem to have night eyes! Our men can’t make a single move without being seen. No. I’ve just received word from the main column. The 65th Regiment has its first battalion just a few miles south. They’ll be here by dawn.”

“So we wait?”

“They have artillery, Feldmann. Thus far the British have bedeviled us with those fighter planes firing rockets. The game now is to get the Artillery into position and put fire on that airfield. There’s also a battle forming south of the river. Donner’s MG Battalion is there.”

“Good!” Feldmann smiled. “Things will be going our way soon enough. The more the merrier! I’ll get my men into position, and we’ll be ready to take that footbridge. If you can get us a little support fire, all the better.”

Ramcke returned the man’s salute, shaking his head at his brash bravado. He was Abwher, not regular army, and not even a member of the Brandenburgers. Those troops were the best the Germans had, and Ramcke had every cause to believe they could deliver on Feldmann’s boast. But the way the man associated himself with the commandos, as if he were one and the same, seemed just a little too much self-aggrandizement on Feldmann’s part. The man wanted to run with the big cats, but I wonder if he has any teeth or claws himself? He wants to take that footbridge? Very well, at dawn he gets his chance.

In the meantime, I’ve lost twenty more men tonight. Come daylight we may finally get a look at these British planes that have been hurting us. Yet for now, there’s no point contesting that hill. It will likely take my entire company to have any chance there given what I’ve heard from Altman and Reinhardt.

He looked at the map, seeing the town as the best possible place to get his men now. This should have been as simple as Feldmann said it would be, he thought. We were to have had surprise and cover of darkness on our side, but neither was our friend tonight. The enemy knew we were coming, and saw us plainly with little more than that sliver of a moon out there. Now daylight removes the only cover we might have near those hills. So I’m bringing Altman and Reinhardt down here. We’ll pool the entire company and try to infiltrate through that town now. It’s our only play.

Even as he thought that, he wondered what cards the British still might hold in their hand. Time was also a key element here. The morning will be our only chance, he knew. By noon the British units following the 65th will be making their appearance. Then it comes down to the real fighting. For now, I need to get one of those goddamned bridges over the river, because something tells me the 65th will be needing it soon. We won’t hold here. The enemy has the whole 10th Indian Division on the heels of our retreat. This is nothing more than a delaying action, and soon we’ll find ourselves retreating yet again. Where this time, Aleppo, or back to Turkey?

In either case, von Sponeck won’t like it, nor will Kurt Student. No, they won’t like it one bit if they have to tell the Führer we could not hold as ordered. Who’s ridiculous idea was it to fly us all the way from Cyprus to this god forsaken desert? Even as he thought that, he realized that it was the plaintive cry of every soldier who had ever found himself in a hard place. So tomorrow we fight, he steeled himself. Let’s see what the men can do.

He looked at the dawn, shunning the coming sun. So much for lightning from the sky. All it really came down to was one man facing another with a rifle in hand. The rest is done with mirrors.