Hammer of God

Chapter 5

They were some time discussing all the ramifications of what Fedorov had told them-that Ivan Volkov was not a man of their own world, but a dark angel from another. What he had whispered in Hitler’s ear, no man knew, but Fedorov stressed that, at key junctures in the war thus far, the Germans had taken decisions that they never made in the old history, and that they were slowly but surely leading them to victory. It was clear to all present that Volkov was now acting as a source of intelligence for Hitler and his regime, using his knowledge of future events to shape the present as best he could. It was therefore necessary for Fedorov to stand in opposition to Volkov, and be light where the other man cast his shadow.

He had discussed all this with Admiral Volsky and Kamenski before he was sent to this meeting, and they had expressed their confidence in his judgment.

“I can think of no other man with more respect for the history, Mister Fedorov, or so dedicated to preserving its integrity,” the Admiral had told him. “But realize that anything you reveal to the men of this era may have unforeseen consequences, no matter how well meaning your advice may be. You might warn them of operations doomed to failure, for example, like the ill fated landing at Dieppe by the Canadians. Yet that defeat taught the Allies valuable lessons that they put to good use at Normandy, and remember, we cannot foresee every possible outcome of these events, or of the changes we may cause here. That said, you must use your best judgment.”

So Fedorov was here, standing in this discussion with Generals and Admirals and heads of state that were glowing figures in the history he so loved, at once in awe of them, and amazed that he should have the temerity to speak as an equal.

Yes, he could not predict what might come of the decisions they would now make, but he had to try. Things had gone too far, and he and his ship were now too deeply enmeshed in the weave of this terrible tapestry of war. Now, with the arrival of Kinlan’s brigade, the necessity to act in a way that could guide the power they possessed was more essential than ever before. And so he made the difficult decision to use the knowledge he had, the store of all the many hours he had spent with his nose in the history books, come what may. He knew the campaigns that were now on the near horizon, and spent long hours reading from his library before he departed for this conference.

So they talked for many hours, deciding what must now be done to further their interests in this war. They spoke of Crete and Iraq and Syria, and the prospects ahead for them in the Western Desert. Where might Kinlan’s force be best employed? Should it remain together as one unit, or might it be better to saturate other British forces with a hard core of these resolute and terrible new warriors from the future. In the end, the need for secrecy guided their thinking as much as anything else, and for the moment it was decided that the Desert Rats would stay where they were, in the southern desert, the deadly foil on Rommel’s flank.

Yet the impending demands of those other battlefronts would delay any real British offensive against Rommel. The British needed time, and they had been given a brief measure of that in the victory lately won. Now they had to use that time to their best advantage. After the meeting it was Churchill who caught Fedorov’s elbow, asking if he might join Wavell for a quiet chat later that evening.

The darkness came, with stars crowding bright in the sky, and a crisp chill on the air. Fedorov was outside the mud walled meeting room, smelling the smoke from a wood fire and listening to the distant calls of wild things in the desert. The night seemed to weigh on him, a leaden feeling that darkened his mood with a sense of foreboding. The weight of all he had studied, and all he knew about what might happen next, was also heavy on his mind. And over it all hung the enormous girth of the war itself, a world war that was still in its adolescence in early 1941. It would go on for years, and so many would die before it ended.

He had read about them, from generals and statesmen, down to corporals in sergeants in small unit actions that were now lost in the stream of events. Yet for the men who fought them, they were the hard edge of life and death itself, moments of supreme personal effort, heroism and courage, cowering and fear, and all soiled with the soot of battle and blood. In those little lost actions of the war, groups of men, comrades all, struggled and fought for places that seemed insignificant in the general scheme of things-a bridge, a hill, an enemy redoubt that had to be taken by storm. They saw their friends die, lost brave officers, rose to the hour and did things they never thought they could, and all that remained of those desperate hours they fought was now but a few lines in an old history book. Yet here he was now, walking along those lines, seeing it all in the finest detail, smelling it, breathing it in…

That thought mated with the distinctive scent of tobacco, and he knew that someone had lit up a cigar. There was a movement behind him, and General Wavell came out from the sitting room to find him. He turned to see the tall, stalwart figure, weathered by the long years in Egypt, but still strong, his cap on, eyes catching the light of the stars.

“Captain Fedorov, would you care to join us now?” Wavell said in perfect Russian.

“Certainly, “ said Fedorov, and he followed the General past the two standing guards and into the shadowed room beyond. There he was thrilled to see one of the great pillars of the war years, one of the truly great men the century had given birth to, Churchill himself, sitting quietly in an chair by the fireplace with a brandy in one hand and a cigar in the other. Fedorov soon found himself under the heavy gaze of the Prime Minister, and he had an inner sense of dread as to what he might now be asked.

“You are a remarkable young man, Captain,” Churchill began, as Wavell translated. “I listened to you very closely in the general meeting, and I can see that your grasp of the situation here is secure.”

“It may seem that way,” said Fedorov, “but nothing is ever certain, Mister Prime Minister.”

“Very true, but yet you have had a peek around the corner of tomorrow, young man, and that is something that few, if any, can claim with any hope to be taken as a sane man. That, plus the fact that you seem intimately acquainted with the events now unfolding, make you a most remarkable asset. I hope you do understand that. And here you have come to us like a guardian angel, and I am told that in your day, our two nations were adversaries. To see you here now, and realize you have taken it upon yourself to try and reverse that outcome, is most commendable. With the knowledge you have of days to come, we can stand advised of every crooked jab of the enemy’s lance, and know when we must thrust and where to parry.”

“Possibly,” said Fedorov, a note of caution in his tone. “I do know what happened once, but that is as much a burden as it is an advantage. And I cannot predict what may or may not result from the decisions you might make. I can only advise you in the light of what I already know.”

“Because you’ve walked the long path ahead. You’ve climbed that hill I put into my speeches to bolster up the people back home.”

“No sir, I haven’t walked it, and I’ve done no climbing at all. That has been, and will be, your privilege and task. I have only read about it, though being here like this makes me feel very odd-as if I were inside one of my books, if you can understand that.”

“Yes… I do understand. I do quite a bit of reading myself,” Churchill said with a smile. “And seeing you here leads me to feel that you have walked right out of some very good tales where I’ve lost myself for many a long hour. Our H.G. Wells, for example, always seemed to me to be a man who saw tomorrow. Now that I know there are really such men alive on this earth, and charting the course of events here, it is somewhat chilling. So here you are in my book, and here I am in yours. That’s the way this life is, my good young man. Everyone you meet is walking out of the story of their own lives, coming to you after a journey of many thousand steps. Some stay with you but a while, a brief chapter or two, but others are at your side for many long volumes, even to the end of your story. I am only glad we have met, and shaken hands here, but tell me, Mister Fedorov, what compelled you to stand with us?”

The question pricked at that deep seed of guilt in Fedorov, for he still believed that it was his meddling, that impulsive whisper in Sergei Kirov’s ear, that had caused the breakup of his homeland and shattered the history of WWII. But he did not want to get into all of that with the Prime Minister, so he gave an answer that seemed fair enough in his mind.

“The war, sir. Not this war, but the next one that follows in our time. And I suppose the long enmity that befell our two nations after this conflict concluded.”

“I cannot imagine it, for the war we have in front of us now demands my whole being in attention. But tell me… We win it, do we not? The Grand Alliance between Britain, the United States and Soviet Russia prevails?”

Fedorov knew this question would be one of the first to be asked. Tovey had asked it, and O’Connor, so it was no surprise that Churchill would want to know as well, and keep the certainty of that outcome in his pocket.

“That is true, sir, The allied forces prevailed.”

“Then why did it fall apart?”

“I suppose because winning the peace is sometimes the more difficult victory. In that, I think we failed, on both sides.”

“A pity.” Churchill relit his cigar, savoring another breath of the heavy tobacco, exhaling slowly. “You know a very great deal for a man so young.”

“Too much, I’m afraid.”

“Then I hope you will unburden yourself with me here. I have always had a yearning to get with our Mister Wells and his Time Machine and spring forward for a good long look. Perhaps we can talk about that later, but for now, the world we’re sitting in is more than enough to manage.”

“Very true, sir.”

“Then tell me, if you will, of the three campaigns that now seem imminent, which road is the most promising? We spoke earlier of the defense of Crete. You seemed to believe that was a lost cause, and yet you indicated the Germans also paid a dear price for that island in the shattering of their airborne corps.”

“True, sir. Whether that will happen again, I cannot say. So in spite of anything I might tell you, the decision remains a gamble. I should point out that Crete was defended by a much stronger force than you have there now. In our history, General Wavell sent the bulk of the 2nd New Zealand Division to Crete, yet it is now moving west into Libya. That leaves you only the 14th Brigade of the 6th Infantry Division, and a few troops that evacuated from Greece, and this is a much weaker defense. It could be that the Germans will not sustain the casualties that your larger force inflicted in the history I know.”

“Everything is a trade off,” said Wavell. “If I had sent the 2nd New Zealand to Crete, then I would have nothing to watch Agedabia while the Australians have a go at Benghazi.”

“Well, what about this General Kinlan’s wonder brigade?” asked Churchill. “They sent Rommel packing once already. Can’t they hold that line?”

“After Giarabub is cleared, we’ll likely have a good number of prisoners to transport back to the Nile,” said Wavell. “Then the 7th Brigade plans to move west to overwatch the German buildup at Mersa Brega. But I still think it wise we leave 2nd New Zealand in Libya for the time being.”

“Which brings us to Syria and Iraq,” said Churchill. “I’m still inclined to give Crete the benefit of anything we can send there, but not at the expense of losing Syria and Iraq! Securing them now before the Germans get the same idea and begin to move troops is paramount. The Captain here says the loss of Crete is a foregone conclusion. We must not allow that line concerning Syria and Iraq.”

“Agreed,” said Wavell, “but all I can make available in either case might be the 7th Australian Division, and I wouldn’t even have that if not for the victory at Bir el Khamsa. They’ve been training up at Mersa Matruh and are now ready. That division, and two brigades of the 6th British division in Palestine, are all that we have in theater. I can add in the 5th Indian Brigade arriving from East Africa now as well, but securing both Syria and Iraq is a tall order for those forces.

“I know you are hard pressed as it stands, General, but we must do something. I’ve spoken to general Auchinleck in India, and he’s of a mind that we can quickly move the 10th Indian division to Basra. In fact, I’ve ordered him to do exactly that. The War cabinet has already agreed on a plan to deal with the Vichy French in Syria, very secret. But perhaps I can persuade Captain Fedorov to advise us on this?” Churchill gave Fedorov an expectant look.

“Yes, this was a most dangerous period, with threats and operations on every side. In our history Crete was lost, as I have said, but I can tell you that both Syria and Iraq were cleared and held.”

“Splendid,” said Churchill. “Then I think we can safely commit the 7th Australian Division to the task, General Wavell. I’m told the Vichy French may not have much fight in them. It may only be necessary to press them hard, and once they see the Aussies come marching in on them, perhaps they’ll come to their senses and join us.” Again, the sideward glance at Fedorov, the raised eyebrow carrying the question.

“Well sir,” said Fedorov. “As to Operation Exporter, which is what your Syrian campaign was called, your first advance committed two brigades of the 7th Australian Division, the 5th Indian Brigade you have mentioned, and the Free French force.”

“You see,” said Churchill, latching on quickly. “He even knows the code name of the operation, something known only to the war cabinet at this point. Good enough. Four brigades do the job in Syria, leaving us all the rest for Iraq.”

“Not quite,” said Fedorov, recalling the research he had read on this campaign just the previous evening. He could see that Churchill was full of vigor and would push units around on the map to pursue his objectives with the assurance of victory given what he had already revealed. He needed to impress upon the Prime Minister the real nature of the struggle that might lay ahead. So he took a deep breath, and spoke.

“Those were the forces committed at the outset to Operation Exporter, sir. It required much more to win through in Syria. The Vichy French will fight, and possibly more vigorously now than they even did in our history. The force I mentioned swept over the border into Lebanon and Syria easily enough, until they encountered stronger enemy resistance on the Litani River and at Damascus. Let me give you a small glimpse of what may lie ahead. You needed that coastal road, and the bridge over the Litani, but you had to pay a price for it. Number 11 Commando was sent in north of the bridge to try and seize it for the Australians, only a third of that force, under major Keyes, failed to land correctly, and found itself a half mile south of the target. Then everything began to unravel.”

“In what way?” Churchill took a sip of his brandy, waiting expectantly.

“Captain More was well to the north, but his radios were contaminated by sea water and he was out of communication. Lt. Colonel Pedder’s force landed right opposite the French barracks east of the road, and he was killed, along with many others. The bridge was blown, Keyes force was forced to try and use boats to cross the river, and all under intense enemy fire from machine guns and mortars. His detachment left many good men there, cut down near the mouth of the river. The forces to the north were counterattacked by enemy armored cars and tanks and driven back. Some were forced to surrender, others made it back to join the Australians. The battalion lost 45 killed and another 84 wounded, about a third of its total force… And this was just the beginning. A battalion of the Royal Fusiliers would be lost in action at Quneitra, outnumbered three to one by an unexpected French counterattack, and fighting to the last round before they finally surrendered. Your forces were held up in the center for some weeks by stiff resistance, and the 5th Indian Brigade also suffered heavily at the doorstep to Damascus. It was soon realized that the force allocated was totally inadequate.”

“My thoughts exactly,” said Wavell. “Three or four brigades to take the whole of Syria? Not bloody likely.”

Fedorov continued. “So the last two brigades of the British 6th Division in Palestine were thrown in, and a good portion of the forces that had been sent to Iraq were also recalled and entered from the east. It was the hardest fighting your army suffered during this whole period, five long weeks against a determined French defense-and this is likely to happen again, or be even worse if the Germans manage to send troops to support their ally in Syria. I do not mean to try and discourage you, but war is hell, and men are going to die in these operations. It took a good many Victoria Crosses for you to win this one.”

Churchill sat in silence, a look on his face that reflected the torment of his mind, and the pain of carrying the burden that was now on his shoulders. Yes, he thought, war is hell, and I am the man who has to order all these good men to fight there.