Hammer of God

MG

His first hard day took him to the village of Al Hulbah, a march of some 75 kilometers. From there a night march took him to some ruins a little over 15 kilometers south of the objective. He sent out a few patrols to scout ahead, and some of his men had been restless enough, and bold enough, to try and attack a battery of German artillery maneuvering into position south of the town. It was this action that had prompted the Germans to re-direct their fire, which spared Fedorov and Troyak what might have been a hard pounding that day. Unfortunately, it also alerted the Germans to the presence of British troops on that flank, and Colonel Wolff disposed his men accordingly.

King Column was finally able to get its hands on the supplies and fuel needed to move and was rumbling northwest towards pump station T3, on the pipeline to Tripoli. There they met and quickly overcame a small garrison, and camped that night some 45 kilometers due east of Palmyra. This force, under the hard charging Brigadier Joe Kingstone, was comprised of the Essex Battalion of Motorized Infantry, the Household Cavalry Regiment with three squadrons of lorried troops, a battery of 25-pounders, some AA guns and a platoon of engineers.

On the morning of March 19, 1941 the British forces assigned to the operation against Palmyra were finally converging on the town. Fedorov had Popski make radio contact with Brigadier Kingstone to inform him that the place had been heavily reinforced, and this changed Kingstone’s plan of attack considerably. He immediately summoned his intelligence officer, Somerset De Chair, and wanted to know what he knew about all this.

“Germans!” he said kicking a nearby canteen and sending it flying twenty feet across the road. “Where did they come from Somerset? Popski says they pulled in last night in a long column of French trucks.”

“Well we haven’t heard a word about it, sir,” said De Chair. “At least not since General Clark’s briefing. He mentioned they were flying in to Homs, but we’ve had no intelligence about this move to Palmyra.” De Chair had been with the column since it left Palestine, a most useful man in ferreting out maps, and even helping to scout the way as he sped about in his blue staff car with an Arabic speaking interpreter, a man named Reading. Kingstone had taken a liking to him, and always referred to him by his first name, even in written orders. But the General was famous for his temper, and he hated surprises, especially ones that involved the sudden arrival of a regiment of German infantry! They were gathered around the Signals Truck, called “the Gin Palace” by the men, and Kingstone was clearly not happy.

“Well it’s no good trying to envelop the place and get to Homs as we planned,” said the General. “We had hoped to get quickly behind the French Garrison and leave it to wither on the vine, but we can’t bloody well do that now. A force that large is too formidable to be bypassed.”

“Agreed, sir,” said Somerset. “We would be much wiser to wait for Habforce to link up from Iraq, and if this is a full German regiment, then I think we’ll need anything else we can get moving our way from Habbaniyah. Sir, with your permission, I’ll see about getting a message off. The Kings Own Rifles are still there.”

Yes? Well tell them we bloody well need them here, and the sooner the better?”

The French still had troops in the Roman ruins, and Colonel Barre’s legionnaires were now occupying a series of block houses to defend the airfield. Barre began to deploy his men in a defensive perimeter, and as he did so, there were reports of fighting on the roads leading east, where the Desert Camel Company was screening the approaches from the T3 pump station. The Colonel was none too happy to learn the British were already in possession of that facility, but he was bolstered by the knowledge that he had German troops behind him now, and determined to fight.

“Let’s show the Germans what the Foreign Legion is made of,” he said. “We’ll hold the airfield, and they will cover our backside.”

One platoon was assigned to the airfield defense, and the remaining two took up positions on the northeast quarter of the town, where the roads led east to pump station T3. Soon the bedraggled men of the Desert Camel Company came riding back in scattered groups of two and three. They had been sent to block and delay the British, but were clearly not up to the task. The enemy was approaching, and deploying infantry into the outlying farms to either side of the road. The action began when a small column of four armored cars approached the town, prompting the legionnaires to open fire with their machineguns. Barre’s men had no effective anti-tank guns, but their fire was hot enough to compel the armored cars to withdraw. Fifteen minutes later the artillery fire began. The British had opened up with a battery of 25-pounders.

Off to the south, Glubb Pasha and his Arab Legion had moved up close to the thick palm groves after the scouts gave up their attack on the German artillery. The enemy had simply lowered the barrels of the 105mm guns and blasted the detachment, knocking out one truck and sending the men scattering into the nearby trees.

A Naib of the tribe, Sergeant Salim, was shaking his head with misgiving, a disgusted look on his face. “Wein al nishawa?” he said disconsolately to a nearby Corporal. “Where are the gallants?”

Jazzi Ibn Isa of the Howeitat was there, with Salim. “Yes,” said Jazzi, “where are the gallants? Those were not French guns, or French troops behind them. They were Germans, and they clearly showed no fear when we surprised them. If we are to prevail we must be equally fearless here! Wein al nishawa?”

His words stiffened the morale of the men, and they were soon set upon advancing through the groves to get closer to the enemy. The Sergeant led them forward, until the rattle of a machinegun opened fire at the far side of a clearing. The Arabs returned fire with their rifles, and a Ford truck came rumbling up, quickly joining the action with its Lewis gun. The firefight grew, as the Arabs came to see that they had now washed up against a company sized force at the outskirts of the town. It was, in fact, the 1st Company of the German 47th recon unit accompanying the regiment, and as the battle widened, another squadron of the Legion came up in trucks, disembarking and rushing into the palm groves to support their brother Arabs.

Both sides exchanged fire for some time, until Sergeant Salim grew restless and shouted for his men to charge the enemy. They had done this many times before, against other tribesmen, and the colonial infantry recruited by the French. Always the fierceness of their ardor for battle, and the flashing silver handled knives they wielded were enough to terrify their enemies. But these were not other native tribesmen, nor African recruits from Algeria, Tunisia or Senegal. They were tough, hardy soldiers from the heartland of Germany, well trained and equally well armed. They sat behind their MG-34s and put down sharp, effective fire on the onrushing Arabs. The bullets zipped through the groves, cutting down the men in their long flowing robes.

Casualties mounted quickly, and it was soon clear that the Legion was not to prevail this day, gallant or not. The charge was broken and the men were driven back. Then up came Lash Bey, the Captain of the battalion, his face red with anger when he saw Sergeant Salim rushing back with three other men.

“What are you doing?” the Captain yelled in anger. “We are reconnaissance units, not assault troops! You will not get at those machineguns that way, and we have no heavy weapons. Leave one section here to keep the enemy under fire. Get the rest of your men back to the trucks. Our job is to screen this flank. Not attack the whole German army!”

Sergeant Salim gave the orders, and gathered what was left of his squadron that day, but Jazzi ibn Isa was not among them. He had joined the other gallants in heaven, where the maidens waited with honey mead and fresh dates, and his beard would never darken the circle of brave men in this world again.

The failed action had served to do one thing, however. It alerted the Germans to a possible threat on their southern flank, a brave distraction from the main British advance coming from the east. Colonel Wolff had heard the gunfire, and the shouts of the Arab Legion when they charged. He had moved his headquarters company up the western edge of the sprawling palm groves, and set up his command post in the ancient Temple of Ba’al Shamin, the old sky god, who was often depicted with an eagle and lightning bolts in the carved stone relief.

Now another god had come from the sky, and a silver eagle flashed above the brow of his cap, descending from above with an iron swastika in its talons. He soon went into the town itself looking for the French garrison commander, and found Colonel Barre near the fortified barracks just east of the main settlement, a facility that would later be converted to a notorious prison in modern times.

Wolff could speak French, and he gave Barre a preemptory salute, which was returned. “It sounds like the British are coming from the south,” he said.

“And from the east,” said Barre. “There are no good roads from the south. The ground is too soft there for heavy trucks.”

“My men are already engaged there,” said Wolff. “But never mind, I will deploy one company and see to the matter. Where is your garrison?”

“On the north edge of the town, positioned to block the main road. That is where they will come.”

“Good enough. We will cover your flank south of this position. Can you tell me who is in that fortress?” He pointed over his shoulder at the bleak hill that lowered over the whole scene.

“We don’t really know. They came last night, possibly by parachute, because we saw no vehicles. They must be British commandos.”

“I see.” Wolff nodded, pursing his lips. “Well, tonight we’ll see about that fort. I have a company of assault pioneers, and men on all the hills south and west. We’ll cover the Roman ruins and move additional troops into the town. May I leave an officer with you here to coordinate?”

“That would be good,” said Barre.

“And the British? Do you have any idea how large their force is to the east?”

“That remains to be seen. They have already toppled the Golden Square in Iraq, seized control of Baghdad and the rest of that place in a matter of weeks. Rumors fly that they had a big armored force there, but we do not yet know their strength. One thing is certain. Now they are here.”

Wolff smiled. “Yes, it seems so, but do not worry, Colonel. Now we are here, the German Army, and my regiment is just the leading edge of the forces to be committed to Syria. An armored force you say? Well, we have tanks too. The entire 9th Panzer Division is deploying by rail through Turkey to Aleppo and Homs to stop the British offensive, and the rest of my division will be deployed into Eastern Syria.”

“The British are moving up the Euphrates, or so we have heard.”

“That may be so, but our 65th Regiment will stop them in due course. As for me,” he removed his glove and extended a hand. “I am Oberst Ludwig Wolff, commander of the 47th Regiment. Our boys gave you fits in France, and now we’ll see about the British!”