Grand Alliance

Chapter 19

Hauptmann Hans Kummel had a frustrated look on his face that morning. He was commander of 1st Company. I/8th Panzer in Cramer’s regiment, but thus far his war in the desert had been a headlong rush east over tractless sand and limestone gravel, through occasional briar scrub and camelthorn, and over parched, wrinkled wadis barring the way. The mid-day heat was intense, even now in the winter, so he had one consolation knowing the coming fight would be in the morning, with the chill of the desert night still heavy on the barren landscape. He was eager for it, a real fight at last with a British Armored force, or so the rumors had it.

“So the British found their backbone,” he said to his driver, a man named Kruschinski. “See that ridge line there? They will have to flow to either side of that. It will split their force, and when they come, we’ll take the company on a wide swing to the east and catch them on the flank. Our job is to get at their support group. The Panzerjagers will engage the tanks.”

“Good enough, Hans. You aiming to get a third Iron Cross this morning?”

Kummel smiled. He had three medals already pinned to his uniform, two Iron Crosses and a Panzer Assault Badge for work in Poland and France. Yes, he thought. A third cross is good luck for me, and bad luck for the British. He saw the beginning of the little artillery duel, three rounds on either side, and then heard the whine of heavy shells coming in, which surprised him. He looked to see the small hill where the Commander of 5th Light had been observing. It erupted in smoke and fire and he saw what looked to be a heavy gun tossed up into the air with the power of the explosions.

“Those are big guns!” he shouted to Kruschinski. “At least 150mm! I would not want to be on that hill.”

More rounds came, seeming to walk westward along the German line now, right through the Pakfront that had been set up there to cover the wadi approach. It was difficult to see what was happening, but he saw at least one big 88 flak gun blasted onto its side. How the British could have registered that fire so accurately amazed him.

What he did not see that morning was the battery of AS-90 Braveheart self propelled 155mm howitzers, well behind the advancing British force. With shells that could range anywhere from 25 to as far as 40 kilometers, all it needed was a good target call, and that had been provided by spotters using lasers to tag the hilltop. The position of the spotting vehicle was seen on the digital screen of the firing Bravehearts, which then knew that the target was 3000 meters beyond that, and with precise coordinates on the digital map. The hilltop had been a known terrain feature, and a bad choice for Streich and his small battery of 150s.

Lieutenant Reeves had also done his work and he was out on the left flank, about 5 kilometers from the German Pakfront he had seen on his thermal imaging systems. Now he was painting the suspected gun positions with a pulse coded laser. The Bravehearts picked up the signal, and gunners loaded the new Excalibur Laser Guided Rounds, programming them to the same code. When fired, the rounds would activate a seeker as they approached the target, and fins would deploy to allow the round to guide itself to the spot being lazed. It was not as accurate as GPS guided munitions, but there were no satellite links, and it was good enough on a cloudless morning like this. Reeves’ artillery call would take out three 88s before their crews ever sighted the enemy.

The artillery was the opening round of the battle, and only the first of many shocking surprises for the Germans that day. Kummel was restless, his head and shoulders jutting up from the open top hatch, his eyes squinting through a pair of field glasses as he watched the incoming fire.

“Come on, Kruschinski, we had better get moving before that artillery finds us too!”

His company was behind and to the left of the 8th MG Battalion from 5th Light Division, and he gave the order for his 18 Panzer IIIGs to move out. He would be the unseen counterattack emerging from the gloaming of the rising sun to the east, staying on low ground so as not to be silhouetted. If the British attacked true to form, they would send in their tanks first, followed later by infantry in small carriers from their support battalions. These were the prey he had his mind set on, and if he swung deep enough, he might also find this enemy artillery as well. He knew where it might be, given the typical range of a British 25 pounder, but could not know that he was very wrong about that guess. Kruschinski kicked the tank forward, and Kummel radioed his company to follow.

Lieutenant William Bowers watched the artillery fire come in to silence the hilltop battery and then engage suspected gun positions on his left. His Sabre had the wadi limited approach that led right up to that hill, a narrow channel that the enemy obviously thought was well protected from direct attack by armor. He radioed back and told the Mercian Battalion to hold in place, but to be ready with infantry on his call. Then he gave the order to move out.

The tanks broke column and spread out in lines, three abreast, five lines deep. Behind them a company of the Mercian infantry in their Warrior IFVs waited on call. The next three rounds to come in were smoke, giving his force a thin mask to make their approach, an advantage he hadn’t called for and really did not need. It had been designed to frustrate the optics and thermals of enemy T-72s, but that beast was not their enemy today — not if Lieutenant Reeves had his head screwed on right that morning. Instead Bowers would end up facing the best guns the German army had for killing tanks, bar none, the weapon that would make a legend for itself here in this very desert, the dual purpose 88.

As Bowers advanced, his gunner had not seen a smaller gun position at the base of the hill and off to the right. It was there that Streich had placed a Pak 50 and two smaller 37mm AT guns in defilade within the wadi. The guns were below the ground level the tanks were using, and therefore not seen on the thermal imaging system until the crews suddenly pushed them forward to the edge of the wadi and began firing. The first indication Bowers had of their presence was a small clink against his frontal armor — a sound that was much more than an errant stone kicked up by the grinding tank tracks.

“I think we just took a small caliber round,” he said, though the tank showed no signs of any damage. “Gunner, track left.”

The big turret, nearly the length of the entire tank, rotated fifteen degrees left and saw the guns. Another muzzle flash marked the position, soon followed by a dull clink as yet another round struck the tank. “Target marked!”

“Shoot!”

The HESH L31 was the first round to be fired by the Royal Scotts Dragoons. It was a thin cased shell with plastic explosives inside that splayed out on the target and were ignited milliseconds later. Useful against fortifications, the man who had first developed the idea, the British engineer Charles Dennistoun Burney, was probably working on the project even now, along with other ideas he spawned for gliding torpedoes and bombs, and recoilless rifles that came to be known as “Burney Guns.” He might be gratified to know the terrible form and shape his ideas would take in the 21st Century, and to learn his HESH round had struck the first real blow by ground forces in the battle that was now beginning. The Pak 50 was immolated, the shrapnel from the explosion also taking out the gun crew of a nearby 37mm gun.

“All tanks on the left — watch that wadi for enemy gun positions. Give it some gas!” His tank surged ahead, two others increasing speed to follow as the Dragoons charged forward. Two groups of three would sweep to the left of the hill, two more groups would break off to the right, and the last three tanks would remain in reserve to support either flank.

“Whatever that was, it didn’t bother us much,” said Bowers.

The 37 and 50mm AT guns were utterly useless, as the Germans quickly found out. Bowers’ tanks took out six gun positions without so much as a paint scratch from the initial defensive line Streich had set up. If he had been alive to see what was happening, Streich would have immediately had the sense to get his men out of harm’s way, but he was dead, struck down by that first thunderous barrage from the Desert Bravehearts that pounded his hilltop position with six heavy rounds.

It was Bowers on the left who would face the 88s. His tanks rounded the hill, their khaki paint schemes blending in perfectly to the chalky terrain around them. The ground dipped slightly, then rose, and when he hit that higher elevation his tank was immediately struck by a much more powerful round. The noise and concussion told them something much bigger had taken up the fight, the Germans’ one hope to stave off this terrible new enemy.

The resounding hit was the first bold challenge, the business end of the German defensive line, weakened by the British artillery, but still potent, with nine 88s still ready for action. The battle had begun, but this was an enemy far more powerful than any tank the Germans had ever faced, or ever would face, in this war. It was an order of magnitude beyond even the very best German tank that would emerge from the cauldron of this terrible conflict, the dreadful Königstiger.

Throughout its combat history to that time, fighting in Iraq, Afghanistan and Egypt, not a single Challenger II had ever been lost in combat to enemy fire! A Challenger II tank could sit faced off by forty medium German tanks of this era and methodically destroy every one of them while the enemy fired away in utter futility. The Germans could fire round after round against that laminate Chobham armor, and do no harm whatsoever.

But German doctrine never intended to allow for such a duel. Instead they would now pit the dread 88 against this new foe, the most powerful anti-tank gun they would field in the war. It could penetrate 200mm of armor at near point blank range, less at this range of just over two kilometers when the Germans fired. That was more than enough to deal with the best British tank, the stolid Matilda with 70mm frontal armor, but this was not a Matilda.

“Damn good shooting,” said Bowers to his gunner.

“Got them on thermals, sir. Shall I return the favor?”

“Please do. No sense scratching up this beast any more than we have to.”

The Challenger II had armor composed of exotic materials, composite ceramics, carbon nanotubes, boron and silicon carbides, aluminum, titanium and syndite, a synthetic diamond composite. Protection levels were calculated against both Kinetic Energy Penetrators, and High Explosive rounds. The frontal armor of a Challenger II had protection levels against KE or HEAT rounds of at least 600mm of standard RHA armor, the type any WWII tank might use. In places, that protection level exceeded 1000mm, and on the heavy turret armor that had so awed O’Connor when he first set his hand on it, this protection rose to an astounding 1250mm against KE penetrators and 1980mm against HEAT rounds!

During operations in Iraq, incidents occurred where a Challenger II had been ambushed and hit by as many as seventy RPGs, weapons that actually had far more penetration power than the German 88s, and yet the tank survived with only minor damage and was back in operation six hours later. No one inside was killed or wounded. In fact, the only instance of a Challenger II destroyed in combat had occurred in a friendly fire incident where one tank mistakenly targeted another at near point blank range, and the shell went in through an open hatch. It was a beast that could only be killed by its own kind.

In short, the Challenger II was completely impervious to destruction by any anti-tank weapon that would ever be developed in WWII. Period. The enemy might get a lucky hit and damage the tracks, but do little else, and tactical deployments could prevent track hits easily enough. There were places on the tank that were more vulnerable to good hits. The flank and rear were not as well protected, but Bowers instinctively sensed this, and gave an order to back up so his tracks would be just below the elevation he had scaled. Then he squared his frontal armor off to the enemy and began lighting up targets. His tank was effectively “hull down” where its tracks were below the sight lines of the enemy guns while its imposing armored turret remained above to engage. And when these Desert Rats attacked, they would ravage their enemy completely.

The gunner had good thermals on the German Pakfront now, and the big 120mm gun began to fire. One, two, then a third 88 battery was blasted away, and the remaining gunners, astounded to see their rounds glancing harmlessly off the enemy tank, had the good sense to run their rigging drill, gun the hauler’s engines, and begin a hasty retreat to the rear. Only seven of the twelve guns would survive. Bowers tank had single handedly defeated Rommel’s heavy flak company, meant to anchor this end of the German line and stop any attack through this defile cold. The defense here broken, he would now lead his 15 Challengers forward to a position where they could begin ravaging the German infantry positions of the 5th Machine Gun Battalion.

The call came out — infantry!

“Sabre one to Ruby Red. Ready on that short order. The main course has been served. Bring out the Bubble and squeak.”

“Copy that, Sabre One. Bubble & squeak it is!”

Bubble and squeak was a traditional English dish made with the leftover vegetables from a full roast dinner. It was mixed with potatoes and fried up, named for the sound of the dish frying in the pan, which would bubble and squeak. But in this case it was meant to indicate a second course, the leftovers after the Challengers had eliminated the primary long range AT threat to the Warriors. It was the handle Bowers had assigned to 1st Company, the Mercian Battalion, waiting to be served.

Old habits were well ingrained. Bowers had defeated the enemy’s long range gun defenses, but now he had open ground, at least two kilometers, to cross. There could be infantry dug in anywhere out there with fistfuls of RPGs. Reeves might have told him not to worry about that. The Germans had no effective man held anti-tank weapon at this stage of the war, but Bowers radioed back to his supporting Warrior company in any case, calling up the IFVs. His tanks had two MGs each, but the Warriors had that nice upgraded 40mm Bofors autocannon, and it would provide superb suppressive fire on infantry positions while he determined what else was in front of him.

He got on his Sabre channel and passed the word. “Tally Ho, gentlemen. We’re leading in the charge. Follow me!”

The deep engine growled and the heavy tracks lurched the tank forward. They came out of the defile and onto the stony plain, gathering speed like a storm of steel. Thermals were hot, picking up enemy positions ahead, and he could hear his men tracking, marking targets, and firing. In the heat of battle he had to remind himself of one last order from Kinlan’s briefing. They had to watch their ammunition count very carefully. He got on the radio to remind his tankers of just that.

“Be stingy with main gun fire, boys. Use it only if you must. We’ve got Warriors right behind us.”

Off in the distance the Germans infantry of the 5th Machinegun Battalion could see and hear the awful thunder of those fifteen Challengers on attack. The dust rose, still red in the ruddy dawn, and something was coming at them from another world, a bolt from the blue, a power that no man among them could ever redress in this first mad hour. The tanks would crash into the German line like elephants treading down ant hills. The Germans watched them come, their machine guns and 37mm AT guns firing furiously, but to no avail.

And so it began…

Chapter 20

The shock of the attack was complete. Even though the Germans were a well trained and disciplined force, they had no answer for the storm that came out of the blood red morning that day. The 88s had been positioned on and around a hill feature designated 198 on Bowers’ map. It lay to the left of the thin track that ran north, with the wadi on the left. The first three Challengers to be engaged had taken out the AT guns with accurate return fire, and three guns had managed to retire behind the hill heading north, their crews shaken to see their rounds striking the enemy tanks, but unable to harm them in any way. The best German defense against tanks had been defeated almost before it could acquire a target!

As the tanks led the charge onto the more open ground, the infantry of the 5th and 8th Machinegun Battalions quickly called for supporting artillery fire, as Streich had planned. Streich was dead, but his orders were still alive. The gritty Sergeants on the line radioed back for artillery fire, and the rounds came in soon after. Yet they were immediately answered by lethal counter battery fire. Radars were watching and recording the arc and fall of the incoming shells, and computers were calculating the position of the guns for the AS-90s. Six guns went into burst mode and quickly put 6 rounds each on the German gun positions—36 heavy 155mm rounds that wreaked havoc. The hasty defense had not given the Germans time to dig their guns in. Realizing what had happened, the only defense was to move the artillery or be destroyed, and by the time they reached a new location the attack would be over.

The Challengers led the way, followed closely by the Warriors with their new 40mm Bofors guns putting deadly accurate fire on the German infantry positions. They were ideal for taking out small AT and infantry guns, and behind them the company self-propelled mortars were laying down good fire with their 81mm tubes. Then they got the first surprise of the morning with the sudden appearance of enemy tanks.

“Thermals right!” A gunner in the leading three Challengers on that flank called the warning. “Tanks! Tanks!”

“Gunner track right. Engage!” The Challengers saw the Panzers coming in at just over 2000 meters, and their big turrets rotated, guns firing as the tanks moved. That was a feat the Germans could not duplicate, as they needed to stop to get a stable firing solution on a target, though that really didn’t matter.

Hans Kummel had been waiting with his company of Panzer IIIGs near an old cairn site, and when the action began he led his tanks out through a low depression, intending to move south and then turn west to take the advancing British on the flank. He thought he might get at the enemy artillery, but had no idea it was almost twenty kilometers to the south. Now his tanks emerged from the purple shadows of the higher ground behind him, charging in to engage, but what he saw was not British 25 pounders, but tanks!

Kummel would need to charge forward another full kilometer to get into optimal firing range, and before his eighteen tanks had covered half that distance, the three Challengers had put needle nosed armor piercing sabot rounds through six Panzer IIIs. He was lucky his own tank had not been hit.

“Kruschinski! Find cover! Look at those monsters out there! Albers!” He shouted to his gunner now. “Can you hit them?”

Albers loaded furiously, sweat dotting his forehead even though the morning chill was still on the air, and the temperature inside the tanks had not reached that awful scalding boil that they often suffered. But he knew his Company commander well, and he could hear the desperate edge in his voice. Kruschinski had backed up to maneuver behind a sandy hummock covered with low desert scrub, and now Albers saw what Kummel was shouting about. A massive hulk loomed in his sights, well lit by the rising sun, a tank unlike anything he had ever seen. He knew the enemy armor silhouettes well, and what to expect at this range. He could distinguish the tall, squarish shape of a Matilda easily from the lower, flatter profile of the cruiser tanks, but this was something else.

He looked at his range finder, thinking they were much closer than he thought. How could it be so huge? The tank was easily twice the size of a Matilda. Then he saw another Panzer III on his left stopping to fire, recognizing the number as Schuber’s tank. The thin barrel of his 50mm gun spit yellow flame at the enemy, but he watched in shock as the round simply glanced harmlessly off the enemy turret, which now rotated ominously in their direction. The gun barrel was the size of a tree trunk, or so it seemed. It had to be an artillery piece! No tank gun in the world could be that size. And then it fired, blasting Schuber’s tank to pieces with a single round.

“Back! Back! Back!” Kummel’s strident order could barely be heard over the noise of the explosion. He had seen all he needed to know. Now their only hope now was to get back behind the knobby protrusion of a wind scored rock formation. The engine strained and the Panzer III jolted, backing furiously way a just as the massive enemy turret and gun began to rotate his way.

The Germans took heart, suddenly seeing platoons of their own tanks charging from the shadow of a long elevation, Hill 209 to the east. But their jubilation was short lived when they saw one tank after another blasted apart, turrets flung wildly into the air with the impact of devastating rounds. Just three enemy tanks had stopped the entire German formation. The Panzers had fired bravely, but their guns did no more damage than the 47mm guns in the Panzerjager units. Dismayed to see that even the powerful 88s had no effect on these new British tanks, a barely restrained panic set in.

All down the line it was much the same. The Challengers stunned the defense, eliminating any potential threat to the lighter skinned infantry carriers. The Warriors stood off and used the range and firepower of their 40mm cannons to pound the German infantry positions. Kummel survived, making the shadow of the hillock just in time, but the 5th MG Battalion was now being decimated by these fierce new British armored vehicles. 8th MG Battalion to the east fared little better.

Ten minutes later Bowers had his Challenger II up on Hill 222 where Streich had taken up his position that fateful morning. From there he could see the enemy retreat was now well underway. Pockets of infantry scurried back from their holes, seeking the protection of a low escarpment on his right. The thin track he was on headed that direction, and his digital map showed it would work its way about four kilometers north through increasingly broken ground to a place called Bir el Khamsa.

2nd Sabre was on that flank mopping up the enemy tankettes that had attacked them. That was how he saw the Panzer IIIs, and could not imagine what possessed the enemy to dare an attack against his Challengers with vehicles that light. Then he remembered his briefing, shaking himself to try and get the message. Those weren’t Egyptian radicals out there this time. The evidence was plain to see all around him now — two mangled heavy guns, a third abandoned, and men lying dead in the rising sun, all wearing the uniforms of the German army from the Second World War.

“Hey Lieutenant,” said his gunner. “Just who are these guys? Those tanks we hit looked like relics.”

Bowers looked at him, saying nothing. “Just watch your thermals, Mister Alten. I don’t care who they are while they’re shooting at us.”

He got on his comm-link radio, seeing 2nd Sabre was well ahead of his position now, rounding Hill 205 and approaching a water cairn site south of Alam Uweida on the right. “Sabre two, any further opposition? Over.”

“Looks like we have them on the run, Lieutenant. Shall I push on to Bir El Khamsa?”

Bowers had been told what to expect in the briefing before the fight, but he could not believe it. Yet now the evidence was all around him, littering the ground with the carnage of what was once a fairly well established enemy position. He had been told to break it, and move it, and that he did. Yet a quick check with HQ on the situation handed him an order to stop in place and await further orders. He remembered Kinlan’s final admonition about conserving ammo, and suspected that it was the real reason behind that order.

I could take my tanks right on through, he thought. But my God… what’s out there? This whole damn thing is true! What in the mad hatter’s world has happened to us? Then he realized that men in all his tanks, and the soldiers in the Warriors that were now deploying to work over the ground around them for any threats, would all have this same bemused question. Now he knew why Kinlan was stopping here.

Yes. Easy does it, he thought. Kinlan wants to wade in gently here, and expose the men to this madness by slow degrees. In the heat of battle you move and fight, picking targets, firing, a thing of synapse and long hours of training and drill. Now, here, on this blasted hill with the wreckage of war all about them, the questions come, whispering up like the ghosts of these men laying dead here.

He knew that every man out there would soon be asking them, just as his gunner had — what was going on here? Who were these men they had fought this day? What had happened to us? He keyed his headset and confirmed his order.

“Rodger that, Brigade. Holding in place and awaiting orders. Sabre Three standing by. Over and out.”

The Afrika Korps was not holding in place. The line had been smashed. 605th Heavy Flak was down to three guns now. 5th and 8th Machinegun Battalions had retreated in the face of the enemy attack, barely making it to their vehicle parks where the disheartened men were scrambling up onto the trucks and hoping they still had fuel to get north. Kummel’s company came out of the action with seven of his eighteen Panzer IIIs intact. He soon learned that the entire battalion had been beaten up, with third company all but destroyed.

Rommel had seen one flank of the enemy attack from his hilltop position, aghast as the heavy armor blasted away his defense. His mind was awhirl, the shock of the battle on him as heavily as it was on his men. He heard the frantic calls for artillery, the resounding crash and swell of the battle, and he knew the sounds of his division well enough. This was one he had seldom heard before. There had been those hours, in the headlong rush across Cyrenaica, when Streich would stop and complain about the fuel situation, or columns would be lost and immobilized in the drifting sand, but this was something else — it sounded like a word he would stubbornly refuse to speak aloud, even in his own mind — defeat.

He knew his flank had been crushed, and now he had two divisions strung out for over fifty kilometers between this place and the roads leading to Tobruk. How big was this force that had attacked him? From all reports the men seemed to say they had seen no more than ten or fifteen British tanks in any given place. But what were they? He listened to the wide eyed reports of his officers and Sergeants as he passed among them, and they all said the same thing. These were massive, unstoppable heavy tanks, something altogether new. Yet in spite of their size and power, they could move like gazelles, firing at the gallop, and hitting targets with deadly precision. They had torn the German defense apart in ten minutes. Then the smaller vehicles came, fast and furious, with a lethal flak gun that was chopping up the infantry positions. Any time they tried to get a heavier gun into position to engage, the long, evil barrel of those tanks would rotate and fire, blasting it away at impossible ranges with pinpoint accuracy.

Rommel had heard quite enough, and through the shock and dismay he realized now that discretion was the better part of valor. If he didn’t act quickly, his Afrika Korps could disintegrate into a mass of confusion and disorder. Any thought he had about pressing further east was now gone. It would be all he could do to save his two divisions and get back to Tobruk.

So he moved, a grey ghost racing in his staff car, from one frantic unit to the next, field glasses in one hand, a map in the other. “We ran into something we did not expect,” he told the men. “It is my fault. Now I want you to move your battalion here. Get any vehicle that can still move on this road and follow it west. Our defense was too hasty. We’ll find better ground to the west and regroup.”

Units of 15th Panzer and 5th Light were all intermingled now, but the troops still cooperated and moved off as he ordered. The German command structure was so flexible, and the unit training so thorough, that his units retained tremendous cohesion, even in a confused retreat like this. Rommel watched them go. The ones who had not yet seen the enemy tanks were the bravest, ready and quick to move with any order. The men coming back from the front line were quite different, sallow eyed, pale, bloodied and dispirited. He did his best to rally them, worrying now that the infection of their loss would soon spread through his army.

In time he managed to get his divisions sorted out, and was grateful that the British attack seemed to stop. He had gathered together elements of his recon battalion as a fire brigade to throw in should the enemy persist in their attack, but they stopped two kilometers south of Bir el Khamsa.

Thank god for that, he thought. They must be strung out as badly as we are. What I need to do now is extricate my battalions and get to better ground. I’ll consolidate later, but now it is time to move. Then I’ll huddle with the division commanders and we’ll determine what to do next. He heard nothing from Streich for some hours, until he was told the man was reported dead. So he took personal charge of the division, driving them west with tireless energy.

The Desert Fox had been outwitted by the British. The sudden appearance of this enemy armored force had completely unhinged Rommel’s plan. As one unit after another peeled off and began the retreat, it exposed other units in the long line that stretched nearly eighty kilometers along the stony escarpment that pointed north to Sollum and Halfaya Pass. And he had the Italians to worry about as well. Once he was satisfied he had his two divisions moving as he wished, he sped off north to find the Ariete Division where it was operating on the main road just south of the escarpment.

As the day lengthened, a shadow fell over his mind and soul that whispered that unspeakable word — defeat. They would get half way to the Egyptian border before the retreat would halt for the night, and he would spend long hours helping the columns get fuel wherever they could find it. That was his main concern now. Though he knew he would not sleep that night, or have any time to spend writing his dear Lucie about what had happened, he was already composing the letter in his mind.

“Dear Lu… We’ve hit a bit of a setback today, a force of British reserves that we had not expected. It seems they have been reinforced with new tanks, and I can only wish I could say the same thing! The men are tired, with a long month of fighting in these harsh desert conditions laying heavily upon them, but they are still good soldiers. The worst of it is that we have no fuel. I have had to leave many non-essential vehicles behind, siphoning off their gasoline so the lorries and tanks can move, and I can get my flak batteries and artillery to better ground. I can see now that until this situation is cured, I can make no further move to the east.

“Perhaps that is for the best, Lu, as it will give me time to meet with Paulus and make my case. I smell a little intrigue here from the General Staff, most likely Halder again, but Paulus is a good man, and above most of that. You remember him, my good friend from the early days. We were both Company commanders together at Stuttgart. He’s been sent over to take stock and see what might be done to better the supply situation. I am told that I’ll get another division soon, the 90th Light, but what I really need now is another good Panzer Division, and the gasoline to keep the tanks running! I’ll write more later, once our position is secure. For the moment, it’s a few steps back to Libya, that is all. Then we’ll dust ourselves off and see about Tobruk. Perhaps I was unwise to bypass that fortress and leave it to the Italians.”

Yes, he thought, very unwise…

Chapter 21

The British advance was equally disorganized. O’Connor had stayed with the 7th Brigade during the attack, working hand in hand with Kinlan, advising him on desert conditions, and what he would be likely to encounter from the Germans.

“They’re tough, professional troops,” he said. “The shock must have hit them very hard, but they are far from beaten. If I were in Rommel’s place I would be doing exactly what he’s up to now — a good fast retreat to El Agheila and Mersa Brega. I’ve seen that ground, and it is very strong terrain for defense. What we need to do now is get General Wavell out here and see what we can muster for an advance.”

“And go through the show and tell again with him?” said Kinlan. “I’m still pinching myself, General, and I have no doubt you are too.”

Fedorov came in with Popski, congratulating them both on the quick victory. “It was as I expected,” he said, “but I would not become complacent here. The Germans will learn and adapt.”

Fedorov knew that the Germans had suffered a similar shock in Russia when they encountered the Soviet T-34 and heavy KV-1 tanks. They were nowhere near as capable as the Challengers, but they did shock the Germans when they realized that none of their existing tanks could penetrate the armor on a T-34, let alone the KV-1. But the Germans adapted their tactics and were able to cope until they could field better tanks in the Panzer IVF, Panther and Tiger models.

“They will be discussing new tactics down on battalion and company level even now. The next time you will meet a much more prepared defense.”

“What we need now is good intelligence,” said O’Connor. “From reports I’ve heard, our own boys don’t really know the whole story on this brigade yet. All they know is that the 7th is back, or so I’ve heard on the radio.”

“And that is all they need ever know,” said Fedorov. I can understand that General Kinlan will eventually have to present the reality of this situation to all of his men, but the inverse would not be wise. General knowledge of the real origin of this brigade must remain a secret.”

“Well,” said O’Connor, “Wavell will want to know what in bloody hell the men are talking about, because he knows damn well the 7th Armored Division is still at Alexandria. That hat will fly off in the wind in due course.”

“Wavell will be briefed, but that doesn’t mean the rank and file must know everything. Most would have a good laugh at the story, and not believe a word of it. It is simply too fantastic to explain what has happened — I’m sure you understand this General O’Connor. What they will believe, however, is that Great Britain has a new unit here in the desert, a highly secret unit. Men of war inherently understand the need for secrecy in battle. That is the card we must play here. This is very important — critical in fact.”

“Agreed,” said O’Connor, but if these men are to fight alongside our boys, it will certainly get chins wagging when they see this equipment.”

“General Kinlan’s brigade can operate independently,” Fedorov suggested. “Perhaps it could secure the extreme southern flank as you move west again. That is the flank Rommel will always need to use should he attempt another mobile battle. Placing the 7th Brigade there would serve to check that and confine any renewed German offensive to the coastal region.”

“Perhaps,” said Kinlan, “and I understand what you are urging us to do now, Captain Fedorov, but war is not often so tidy. Military contingencies might compel me to render close support to existing British or Commonwealth units here, and in time, I will need their support as well. My brigade has limited supplies of food and water in train, not to mention ammunition. I’m not sure anything can be done about the latter, but we’ll need other supplies, including fuel for our vehicles, and it will have to come from the existing logistics network here.”

“I might suggest we establish a dedicated forward depot to support your troops with these necessities,” said O’Connor. “I can arrange this for you. I’m not sure how your men will handle bully beef tins and biscuits, but I think we can keep you fed. Hauling fuel and water south into this desert is another matter, particularly if you move further west. It will take some planning, and the trucks of course, but it could be done.”

“How is the fuel situation?” asked Fedorov through Popski.

“We have the Challenger IIE, here, the upgraded model with the improved 1500hp Europack powerplant. It’s very efficient and left room for much more fuel in the tank. Our range is about 550 kilometers. We’ve come about 150 kilometers north from Sultan Apache, so I’ve plenty of fuel in the tanks still, and the supply train has fuel enough to refill all our vehicles one time. After that we need diesel to keep moving.”

They hovered over the map and Kinlan began to point out a plan he had been considering. “You hold the oasis at Siwa, do you not?”

“We have men there, but remember that Italian division we observed. They’ve relieved Giarabub, but don’t seem interested in doing anything more for the moment.”

“Then I propose to move them out of Giarabub directly. That was what your Aussie battalion was wanting to do, but it’s clear they won’t have the force. Once I do that I can establish my main supply hold at Giarabub. You wouldn’t have to move supplies for me all the way to the west. If you can run supplies from Mersa Matruh down to Siwa, then my trucks can pick them up there and move them west to support my move to this position…” He pointed to the edge of the Great Libyan Sand Sea that stretched west to a point above the Jalu oasis.

“If I move along the edge of that desert, we can secure Jalu for an additional source of water, and then that will be built up to a new forward supply base. Once I settle in north or northwest of Jalu, I’ll be in a position to bushwhack any move the enemy makes on your southern flank, and also free to operate with the intent of threatening the enemy flank as well. My force is capable of standing against anything they throw at us, at least as long as our munitions hold out. So if you can move supplies to Siwa, principally fuel, I’ll handle the rest.”

“Excellent. I think we can manage that, General Kinlan.” O’Connor was very excited now, but did have a question that needed asking. “Yet you’ve mentioned ammunition on more than one occasion. How long can you operate before you’ll need replenishment?”

Kinlan looked at Fedorov as Popski translated for him, then folded his arms. “Sergeant Major!” he looked over his shoulder, and the Sergeant was quick to attention.

“Sir!”

“Fetch me a Charm round from the Brigade HQ troop stocks.

“Right away, sir.”

When the man returned, Kinlan could hand O’Connor something tangible by way of answering his question. The round was an Armor Piercing Fin Stabilized Discarding Sabot, with a bright orange base that narrowed to a thin molded frame. That eventually widened to a silver rimmed base from which a long, black spike projected, the business end of the penetrating round. It used both Tungsten and depleted Uranium to make it the lethal weapon it was, and its unorthodox shape and configuration immediately answered one question.

“I don’t suppose your people have any of those lying about,” said Kinlan. “That round uses materials your industry will not have at the moment, and I’m afraid there is no way it could be duplicated. So this is a come as you are party for us, General. Once we fire the last of those little devils, the show is over. My tanks have a mix of various munitions, but I’ve no more than 150 rounds per tank. That said, if we make them count, each one of these demons can put one of Rommel’s tanks out of business, and then some. He’s already seen what they can do, and that has everything to do with why he’s headed west now. That and some precision artillery fire from our long range 155s.”

“I understand,” said O’Connor, hefting the round and handing it back to the Sergeant. “And I don’t suppose we would be much help with your maintenance issues either.”

“I’m afraid not. No General, you can send us food, fuel, water, and perhaps small arms munitions. I’ll put my people on it and we’ll see what, if anything, we can use.”

“I suggest I go to Wavell now in the KA-40,” said Fedorov. “I can speak Russian with him, and prepare him for what he will find when he arrives here. Perhaps a note or some communication as to the urgency of our meeting, from you General O’Connor, would be useful as well.”

“Certainly,” said O’Connor, tapping his riding crop. He was beginning to feel right at home here, his eyes still transfixed whenever a Challenger II was near. The thought he had such a force within his grasp now was rousing, after scraping along with Mark VI machinegun tankettes and old cruiser tanks that could barely get fifty miles before they broke down. He had seen the brigade in action, and was awesomely impressed. The power they represented was fearsome, even though he understood it was limited now, as Kinlan had clearly explained. His mind looked ahead to what would follow this victory, and the immediate moves the British might now undertake.

“The problem now is occupying all the Ground Rommel has decided to give us back,” said O’Connor. “We did it once, but it took us a good long month. I was able to clear the Jebel country with the 6th Australian Division, while I took everything else across the base of the peninsula to Agedabia and Beda Fomm. We’ll likely do that again, but that report of Italian troops massing on Benghazi is bad news. If they decide to hold out there it would require us to invest the place, and we just haven’t enough infantry yet to do that, and also hold a front facing the Germans at Mersa Brega.”

“I think General Wavell will be recalling the 4th Indian Division from the East African campaign,” said Fedorov. “You’ll have the 2nd New Zealand Division too.”

“Even with those troops our prospects for any further offensive will be slim. They will barely be enough to hold a line along the coast near Mersa Brega, which is where I believe Rommel is heading. Your Brigade can be the tip of the spear, General Kinlan, but as you’ve explained, you only have so much ammunition in train, and you’ll need to be supplied just like any other unit in this environment. My instincts tell me to dash off in hot pursuit here, but that’s just what got Rommel into the stew he’s eating now. No. I think it best we arrange these logistics before contemplating any major move west. I’m sure this is what Wavell will advise. Our men just made the long slog from Agheila to Tobruk, Bardia and beyond. They’ll need rest and refitting before we can ask them to turn around and move west again. Given your situation, I think we’d be much better off planning the next offensive carefully, so we can get the most from your force while it remains viable.”

There it was again, thought Fedorov — the 7th Brigade represented power that was absolute, but finite. He knew full well how Kinlan must feel now. He would have to get back to Alexandria to brief Wavell, and then his own ship would be needing him soon. He felt reluctant to leave, wanting to help guide and advise Kinlan at this most critical initial phase of his experience here. At the same time, he harbored a lingering feeling of guilt for being the man who had let the bear out of his cave here. He knew the knowledge of Kinlan’s presence was very dangerous, and wanted to watch over things and prevent further contamination. On one level, he knew he was being foolish. Events had now been set in motion that would gather their own momentum, for good or for ill. At least I’ve manage to move things in the right direction, he thought. We’ve stopped Rommel’s advance, and saved Egypt for the moment. That was no small feat.

Beyond all this he still had the Germans to worry about, and yes, what they needed now was good intelligence. He needed to get up and find out what was going on, but he had limited fuel. He would have enough to get to Alexandria, brief Wavell, and then he would need to return to Kirov to refuel and huddle with Admiral Volsky again.

For now, he thought, it will be a long slow advance for the British as they try to re-occupy Cyrenaica, just as O’Connor said. I’ll have to have faith in him, and in Kinlan. There is nothing else to do. I certainly won’t be the man running operations here, so it’s time I returned to the ship.

It was then that a runner came in with more news off the radio, and it was most welcome.

“There’s been a battle at sea,” he said. “Apparently the Royal Navy has given the Italians quite a beating.”

“Good show,” said O’Connor. “They’ll be happy to know we’ve done the same to Jerry here, thanks to you fellows showing up in the nick of time. Well then, I think we all will have our hands full in the next few days and weeks. Let’s get on with it.”

Fedorov turned and shook hands with both men, wishing them well. He told them that he would report soon on his meeting with Wavell and relate the General’s intentions.

“Now,” he said himself in English. “I have ten hungry Marines to feed, and a ship to look after. Good luck to you both!”

He saluted, and took his leave, heading for the KA-40 where Troyak and the Marines had assembled, more than ready to be moving again. They had stewed in confinement for some time, until Fedorov managed to forge his alliance with Kinlan. Most had no idea what was happening, but they had followed Fedorov’s orders to sit tight and stay quiet. He spied Orlov, a thought coming to mind.

“Chief,” he said. “What ever happened to that thing you say you found in Siberia?”

“You mean this?” Orlov reached in his pocket, producing the strange tear shaped object, about the size of a small egg. Fedorov simply extended his hand, waiting for Orlov to hand it over. “Something wrong?” he asked.

“I’m not sure,” said Fedorov, “but I’d like to have a closer look at this thing, if you don’t mind. Maybe the ship’s engineers can figure out what it is.”

“Dobrynin? I was going to ask him about it, but he was too busy.”

“You say you were near the Stony Tunguska River when you found this?”

“Very close. We spied something from above, and I thought someone was signaling me. So Troyak and I went down to have a look. I told you what happened. The Sergeant calls it the Devil’s Teardrop. Good name for it. There was something very strange about that place — very bad. In fact, it scared the crap out of me, and I’m not ashamed to admit that. It was as if… well I could feel something was terrible there, a real feeling of doom. Your senses were keened up like a grizzly bear was on your trail, but it was deathly quiet. I never felt anything quite like it. All I could think of was getting the hell away from that place.”

“Yes… Well, I think I’d better hold onto this.”

“Be my guest,” said Orlov, “but be careful. It gets warm sometimes. Damn thing almost burned my hand — right when we saw those odd lights in the desert.”

Fedorov thought about that, but said nothing. He took the object and tucked it into his service jacket pocket, his thoughts musing on the possible connection between this object and the incident involving Kinlan.

Just what I need, he thought, another mystery to solve.