Hammer of God

Chapter 16

John Bagot Glubb had “gone Arab” long ago, another desert loving Englishman like the fabled Lawrence of Arabia, who went off to the desert as a young man to seek his fame, if not his fortune. He soon fell in with General Frederick Peake, then known as Peake Pasha, and the founder of the Arab Legion. A fluent speaker of Arabic, and well schooled in the ways of both the desert and the Bedouin tribes that inhabited the place, Glubb proved most useful. He learned everything he knew the hard way, in the desert itself, where he had once taken a 500 mile camel ride with the tribes. Now he adopted their ways, earning their growing respect as he did so, a leader from the British Empire that was embraced as one of their own.

To look at him one would not think the man capable of the things history recorded in his name. He was a diminutive, almost impish figure, with a round bulbous nose, deep blue eyes, sandy hair and ruddy complexion, with a small mustache. A wisp of a smile was often on his lips, and he listened much more than he ever spoke. The wound he had suffered in WWI when a bullet grazed his chin gave him an odd, cheeky look, and he had a quiet disposition that belied the inner strength of the man.

It took a strong man to lead the Arabs, for they were a race of strong men, born to the harsh desert with the stones in their bones, the wind in their hair and the never ending sun in their eyes. Hard men all, they had been recruited into the legion, wearing British uniforms, but with Arab headdress and the legion badge, of a Royal crown above two curved scimitars. Their thick belts held a pistol on one side and a curved dagger on the other to augment their rifle or sub-machinegun. Bandoliers of ammunition were strung from each shoulder, the bullets jutting like sharp teeth to complete the appearance of a determined and threatening man. How Glubb had won their hearts is not entirely known, but they worshiped him, and would follow him anywhere.

Once the legion rode exclusively on swift camels, braving the sandstorms and sun to make their ceaseless patrols. Now, with this new war in the desert, some would take to trucks and armored cars, becoming “mechanized” as their British officers called it. They had six locally customized armored cars, with Lewis guns, Boys AT rifles and a Vickers machine gun. While not as colorful as the gilded saddles and colored blankets of the Camel corps, the men still took to wearing the long robes over British kit, and their dark hair flowed in the wind when they were on the move, which prompted the Imperial soldiery to call them “Glubb’s Girls.”

But there was no mistaking these soldiers for ladies when it came to a fight. They had a singular ardor for battle, and could often be heedlessly brave, forsaking any thought of their own personal safety in the interest of honor, and sometimes, vengeance. They were a sharp sword that Glubb had somehow managed to sheath and carry on the hip of the British empire, even though he was not technically in the service of His Majesty’s armed forces any longer. He had resigned his commission to focus on leading the Arab Legion, and that force would later become the nucleus of the Army of Jordan.

It was this force that Fedorov was now planning to meet with at the desert hamlet of Rutbah, well out in the deserts of Anbar Province, Iraq. The place had been a frontier outpost where the Iraqi police once held forth in a stone fort, but it had been quickly seized by Kingcol on its advance to Habbaniyah earlier. That force had reached the airfield there, finding that the enemy had been cleared from the plateau and was fleeing to Fallujah. After linking up with the beleaguered garrison at the airfield compound, “Habforce” had been able to ferry troops across the Euphrates and surround Fallujah, which fell the next day.

In the history Fedorov knew, all this action had occurred during the flood season, which had delayed the advance on Baghdad considerably. Now, happening in the dryer month of March, the British forces were able to make a swift approach to the city, and the rumors of the terrible night on that plateau suffered by the Iraqi troops sent to lay siege to the airfield preceded them. In the real history, it was rumor as much as anything else that had enabled this relatively small force, a few battalions in strength, to topple the fledgling regime of Rashid Ali and his Golden Square. This had occurred when an Iraqi outpost was hastily abandoned, and the telephone system was not destroyed as it should have been, allowing the British to listen in over an open line to hear the dispositions and orders being given to the Iraqi troops defending the capitol.

An Arab speaking officer in the intelligence arm of the column had also played out a ruse by speaking over the line that the outpost could not be held, because the British were coming with a massive force of 50 tanks, when in fact they had no more than a few home styled armored cars to support the trucks of lorried infantry. It was this rumor that spread like fire through the suburbs of Baghdad, and allowed the British to unhinge what could have been a stubborn Iraqi defense in this densely populated urban setting.

That captured open line telephone was a perfect example of a Push Point in Fedorov’s research. Some Iraqi corporal in the detachment had simply dropped his telephone receiver on the desk and taken flight at the approach of the British, a small event, pure happenstance, that had enabled the clever British intelligence section in the column to use deception and eavesdropping to topple the Iraqi regime.

This time, however, that incident had not occurred. Instead the awful rumors of flying shadows of death, their wings beating the night airs like dragons, and spewing deadly fire that destroyed all before it-these were enough to do the same work. The Iraqis wanted no quarrel with these demon soldiers that had come upon them in the night, and the result of the terror these stories spread worked much the same result on the history. Rashid Ali and the German Ambassador had fled to Mosul, and the resulting collapse of central authority allowed the British to advance elements of their 10th Indian division from Basra much sooner.

Kingcol returned to Habbaniyah in a matter of days instead of weeks, where it waited for supplies being floated up river from the 10th Indian Division stores. Fedorov did not know that the Brandenburgers had already re-written their raid on the river flotillas, and that those supplies were instead being carried off by the Arab nationalist brigade they had raised, a force loosely affiliated and sometimes led by a nefarious figure named Fawzi al-Qawuqji. The Russian Captain had planned to rendezvous with Kingcol at Rutbah, and brief them on the mission he had in mind for Palmyra, but Kingcol was nowhere to be seen.

When the big KA-40 came thumping out of the skies to the west, there was quite a stirring at Rutbah among the men of Glubb Pasha’s Arab Legion. They were accustomed to flying machines by now, though they had never seen one like this. They shirked from the sound and billowing dust kicked up by the twin rotors, but otherwise stood by their horses and vehicles, watching the scene with great interest and curiosity. What was this new war machine the British were using?

Fedorov was out with Popski, looking to find Brigadier Kingstone, but soon learning he was nowhere near. It was Glubb Pasha that held sway at Rutbah that day, for he and a detachment of his Arab Legion had been scouting down the long desert road from Habbaniyah as an advance guard. He came out, dressed in a great coat, for the desert chill was still on the land that morning. Fedorov saw a short man, his khaki coat fastened with five gold buttons and a flash of color over his breast pocket where his medals and decorations rode. He wore the traditional Middle Eastern headdress known as the Keffiyeh, tied off with a heavy twisted cord of silk that was called an Aqal. His English boots reflected his roots, but he had clearly blossomed to Arab ways in that headdress,

Popski had heard of the man, and thought him to be a confederate at heart-another wild desert scout and warrior like himself. “Well met,” he said. “Vladimir Peniakoff, but most chaps call me Popski-a little easier on the tongue. This here is Captain Fedorov, Russian Navy, and he’ll command that lot over there.”

He pointed to the helo where the marines were filing out to stretch their legs, as the ride had them bunched up tightly to get as many men aboard as possible. The helo might normally be full with sixteen men, but they had managed to squeeze in twenty, with weapons stowed in the exterior compartments or slung under the helo where the weapons pods and torpedoes might ride on a naval mission. The Big Blue Pig continued to serve well, fresh from the maintenance bays of Kirov’s fantail.

“Quite an aircraft,” said Glubb, as interested in the helo as any of his men were. Now they gathered round, eyeing the Marines with great curiosity, noting the assault rifles they carried with much interest.

“Something very new,” said Fedorov in English.

“He’s Russian thru and thru,” Popski explained, “but he’ll manage a little English at times. I’m signed on here as desert guide and interpreter, and I’ve even commanded that group there in battle once or twice. Fine good soldiers, every last one of them.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Glubb with that impish smile. “ We can use all the help we can get.”

“That helicontraption will be heading out soon to make another supply run. They’ll be bringing in some canisters of fuel and ammunition.”

The helo had already landed here, before Glubb arrived, with reserve aviation fuel, munitions and food. Then it took off to fetch Popski and the Marines, returning now for the briefing before they set out for their objective.

“We had hoped to meet up with Brigadier Kingstone here,” said Popski.

“He’ll be delayed,” Glubb returned. “In fact, the whole column is still gathering at Habbaniyah. It seems there was some trouble with their supplies from Basra. They were attacked on the river, and never got through.”

“Iraqis? Then they’re still fighting?”

“No, I think they’ve had quite enough of us. These were men from the Arab Brigade, insurgent raiders with little love of the British empire, and anything affiliated with it. They’ve been vexing us for years now, off and on. Berbers have a mind of their own, and take to pillaging anything that isn’t nailed down or well guarded.”

“Oh? We thought you had them all under your thumb, Pasha.”

“Not bloody likely,” Glubb smiled. “My men are among the very few in country that have stood by us here. Most every other Arab tribe thinks the British are finished. They thought as much as soon as Rashid Ali had the cheek to go and set up his Golden Square, but we’ve seen him off. He may be on his way to Mosul, unless he failed to get up north that way before my men cut the rail line. Otherwise he’ll probably head for Persia. As for the tribes, they aren’t going anywhere, and most think the British are finished here. They halfway expect the German army to come marching in at any moment.”

Popski translated all of this for Fedorov, who immediately asked a question.

“The Captain asks if you have seen any sign of German troops here yet.”

“Not outwardly, but they’re here. There were upwards of five or six thousand German nationals in country when all this business started. A good number of those were fifth columnists, to be sure. This little raid on the supply flotilla was very likely their doing. It was clear from the reports I had, that the Arab Brigade had help. Some say they were led by German officers.”

“The Brandenburg commandos,” Fedorov said to Popski. He knew they were here, the first storm crows of the German army, seeking to exploit the volatility inherent in the situation and harass the British as best they could.

“Brandenburg?” Glubb had not heard the name. “Well they’re here alright, no matter what they’re called. There are air units also operating from Mosul and Baquba, though they’ve abandoned the field at Baquba and redeployed north. But from Mosul its only 180 miles to the Euphrates, and a little over 300 to Palmyra where we’re headed next. You can be sure they won’t forget us. Those Bf-110s are rather nasty. I have one report that a couple may even be operating from the airfield at Palmyra now.”

“We’ll see what we can do about that,” said Fedorov when Popski translated. “How long before King Column might return here?”

“That’s anyone’s guess,” said Glubb.” Fawzi and the Bedouins have been nipping at the heels of the column throughout the mission. We nearly got him in a good fight three days ago, but he slipped away. And Fawzi or no, the Bedouins are always a problem. Anything we leave here will have to be well guarded. Otherwise they’ll slip in at night and steal the whole lot. Well now… You can set your men up over there for the night. I’ve a spot of tea on the boil in the fort if you’d care to come along.”

Fedorov nodded appreciatively, then gave orders to Troyak in Russian to get the Marines sorted out. Glubb’s troopers looked from him, to Troyak and to any other man who spoke, listening to the harsh guttural tones of the Russian language, their curiosity never ending. A few seemed like they wanted to parley with the Marines, eager to get a closer look at their unusual rifles and other weapons.

They walked towards the fort now, where there was a room with table and chairs, and sat down in the cool shadows. Fedorov took some time to explain the mission he had in mind, and what he expected to accomplish at Palmyra.

“You’re going to fly there… in that aircraft?” asked Glubb.

“That we are,” said Popski.

“What about those German fighters?”

“We’ll slip in at night and get there before they know anything.”

“And then you’re going to seize the chateau? With twenty men?” He was referring to the castle of Fakhr-al-Din al Manni, built by a Druz prince in the15th century, which the French simply called ‘the chateau.’

“We’ll take it in a flash.” Popski folded his arms, confident with what he had already seen of Troyak’s Marines.

“There’s Foreign Legion at Palmyra. Tough men, and block houses round that airfield.”

“Take a closer look at the lads out there,” said Popski. “We’ll handle ourselves. It’s the fortress we want. King Column can take the airfield. All we do is lay down fire so the enemy can’t use the field for operations or resupply.”

“You know that fort is on a high hill-very steep, and surrounded by a deep gully moat. There’s only a single bridge over that, beneath high stone towers.”

“We won’t be taking the bridge, or even bothering to ring the bell at the gate. We plan to plop right down on top of them, or so the Captain here tells me. Once we get the fort, then we’ll turn our mortars on that garrison and airfield and give them a little misery. It will be nice to know that you chaps are coming along soon. This bit about Kingstone’s column still held up at Habbaniyah has set back the timetable, but we go tomorrow in any case, as soon as that bird out there returns with more supplies.”

Glubb Pasha took all this in, raising a sandy eyebrow, thinking. “Let’s hope Brigadier Kingstone gets his supplies and isn’t delayed. He was none too happy about these new orders to withdraw to Habbaniyah, and I dare say he won’t be happy to learn he’s got a new mission to Palmyra. It was a long haul across the desert from the shores of the Med all the way to the Euphrates. His was the first military force to pull that off since Alexander the Great. There was a lot of looting in Baghdad after the Golden Square took flight. I’ve heard the Foreign office was none too happy about it, and they’ll be less happy to see Kingstone pulling his troops out so suddenly. You realize this will tip our hand that Palmyra is King Column’s next target. That’s the most strategic town in the eastern desert. What if the French send in reinforcements?”

Writing new history always has its risks, thought Fedorov, but he said nothing more.