November 16th, 1230 Hours
Unfortunately for Lynch and the rest of Meadeforce, his hopes of the German plane crashing in the desert were for nought. Little more than an hour after their departure from the Italian supply depot, Lynch saw half a dozen specks appear in the air over the horizon to the north of them.
“Aircraft, dead ahead!” he shouted to Lawless and Higgins.
All around them, the other LRDG trucks were responding to the sight of the oncoming aircraft. The formation immediately began to spread out, pushing the distance between each vehicle to several hundred yards. Behind them, the Crusaders also began to shift, breaking up their more orderly formation and increasing their speed. Lynch cursed the lack of a radio on their truck, since this far apart there was no way for the trucks to communicate with one another.
“What do we do now?” Higgins shouted over the roar of the engine.
“Don’t bloody well ask me!” Lawless replied. “I’ve never been strafed!”
Lynch racked back the bolt of the Vickers. “It’s not bloody pleasant, I’ll tell you that now! Get ready with that Lewis gun, and be patient! You have to wait until they pull out of their dive, that’s when they’re the slowest and easier to hit.”
By now, the flight of six Stuka dive bombers was spreading out, each pilot looking for a choice target. The planes passed overhead, too high and too fast to be hit by machine gun fire. Lynch looked behind them as he heard the telltale change in engine noise as one of the dive bombers began its attack run. Through the haze of dust and sand thrown up by the formation’s movement, Lynch saw first one, and then a second Stuka come around from behind the formation, rolling and diving near vertically at a target far to their rear. A sudden thought struck him.
“The lorries!” he exclaimed. “They’re going for the petrol lorries!”
As Lynch voiced his warning, an enormous mushroom cloud of flame and black smoke boiled up into the air, the sound of the explosion reaching them a moment later. He’d seen explosions just like it a year and a half ago, as the British Expeditionary Force retreated across the length of France, harried the entire way by German forces. The dive-bombers would target fuel dumps and lorries, the pilots knowing a modern, mechanized army lived and died by its supply of petrol.
“We’ve got to turn around!” Lynch shouted at Higgins. “There’s no one defending the lorries!”
“Are you out of your bloody mind, mate?” Lawless replied. “They’ll knock us to pieces!”
“If someone doesn’t fight them off, we’ll all be stuck out here when the petrol in our tanks runs out!” Lynch shot back. “We’ll be as good as dead!”
Lawless and Higgins exchanged resigned looks, and without another word, Higgins turned the wheel and swung the Chevrolet around, heading back the way they’d came. To the east, another explosion blew a geyser of sand and smoke up into the air, but there wasn’t the signature fireball of a destroyed supply of petrol.
Looking to either side, Lynch saw he wasn’t the only one to take action. Several other trucks were racing back through the dispersed formation, the machine gunners in each vehicle readying their weapons. They passed within a few feet of a Crusader tank, and the commander standing in the tank’s open hatch shouted something at Lynch’s truck while waving his hands in a warding gesture, but his words were lost in the roar of the Chevrolet’s engine and the squealing of the Crusader’s treads.
Ahead of them, two more Stukas rolled in on an attack run, and this time Lynch saw the streams of tracer fire pouring from their wing guns, flaying the sand with bullets. The tracers raced across the ground and hammered a speeding lorry, the driver desperately trying to zig-zag and avoid being hit. First one Stuka, then another strafed the defenceless vehicle, and as the second plane finished its run, the lorry detonated in a fireball, bits of burned metal and meat spinning through the air as black smoke churned upwards.
“Those bloody murderers!” Higgins cried, beating a fist against the truck’s steering wheel. “Poor buggers couldn’t even fight back!”
“We can’t help them now,” Lynch replied, “but we might make a difference for that lot to the north. Bring us about!”
Higgins swung the truck to the left and Lynch clung onto the Vickers’ mount as the truck rocked on its suspension, a thick plume of dust flying behind the vehicle. Other trucks were now arriving at the rear of the formation, and Lynch saw tracers reaching up into the sky after a prowling Stuka. The German pilot deftly avoided the ground fire with a flick of his wing, rolling out of the way and straightening in time for a gun run against another LRDG truck dead ahead. Plumes of sand stitched across the ground, and only a desperate wrench of the steering wheel saved the truck from being ventilated by 7.92mm bullets.
The strafing run brought the Stuka’s flight path very near Lynch’s truck, and although the pilot fired at them, the tracers went well overhead, overshooting by dozens of yards. In response, Lynch swung up the Vickers and let loose a long burst. The Stuka was too close to jink out of the way, and Lynch saw the dive bomber pass right through his tracers, but the plane appeared undamaged when it flew overhead a second later. He muscled the heavy machine gun around and fired at the retreating tail of the Stuka, but the range was already too great.
“We need more firepower!” Lawless shouted, after seeing the dive-bomber depart unharmed.
The whine of another bombing attack reached Lynch’s ears, and he searched the skies until he saw another Stuka plunging towards a petrol-carrying lorry several hundred yards to his left. Higgins spotted the attack run at the same time, and shifted gears, trying in vain to win a race against the diving airplane. Lynch and Lawless opened fire with their machine guns in a desperate attempt to hit the Stuka before it released its payload, but instead they watched, helpless, as a hundred-pound bomb detached itself from the wing hard-point and slammed into the lorry’s bonnet. The bomb’s detonation was immediately followed by the lorry’s cargo of petrol vanishing in a ball of smoke and flame. Higgins drove the Chevrolet past the flaming wreckage in the hopes of spotting a survivor who’d bailed out at the last moment, but there was nothing left; the lorry was barely recognizable as any kind of vehicle at all, and nothing of the crew was identifiable.
The last couple of petrol lorries were driving in haphazard patterns, as fast as their overtaxed engines were able to move them. Overhead, the Stukas began circling for the kill, like hawks preparing to pounce upon fear-stricken hares. The LRDG trucks raced towards the lorries, machine guns hammering tracers into the sky in the vain hopes of warding off the dive bombers. But the distances involved were too great, the planes too fast; any trucks providing cover fire for one vehicle were too far away to defend any other, with the end result that coverage over any one lorry was too light to be effective.
One after the other, the Stukas rolled in, machine guns blazing, air horns trumpeting their deadly call. Lynch flailed the air with bullets, doing his best to try and make contact with one of the dive-bombers, now plunging down upon the plundered Italian cargo lorry taken from the depot that morning. A second Chevrolet truck joined in the air defence, a total of four machine guns hurling dozens of rounds a second into the air above the lorry. The Stuka passed through the wall of lead just as a pair of bombs detached from its wings, and as the plane pulled out of its dive, black smoke began trickling from the plane’s engine cowling. Lynch heard the misfiring of the Stuka’s engine as something mechanical went terribly awry. Suddenly, the plane’s manoeuvre faltered, and just as the bombs struck on either side of the lorry and reduced it to flaming wreckage, the dive-bomber’s engine burst into flames and the plane arrowed into the desert, turning itself into a ball of fire and greasy black smoke.
Lynch would have cheered their kill, if it hadn’t come at such a cost. Above them, the five remaining Stukas circled the formation for a minute. Four of them appeared completely unharmed, while the fifth trailed a thread of dark smoke. The planes were too high above the ground to be threatened by machine guns, and even the boo
mboomboom of Harry Nelson’s Breda autocannon had no effect. After a couple of circles, the wounded Stuka and a wingman peeled off and headed north, while the other three turned to the southeast.
“Bloody hell,” Lawless cursed. “They’re going after the depot!”
“They’re going to make sure we can’t return there and refuel,” Lynch replied. “Methodical bastards, so they are.”
In the wake of the air attack, Meadeforce ground to a halt. The major’s precious armour remained spread out, but the faster Chevrolet trucks and the armoured cars converged, without any coordination, on the burning wreckage of the Italian lorry. Only one tank, Meade’s own Crusader, joined the gathering of vehicles. Lynch reloaded the Vickers, then asked Lawless to man the weapon while he jumped down and approached where the officers were congregating. Lynch saw Price standing near his own truck, shoulders stooped, staring at the burning lorry nearby. As he approached his commanding officer, Lynch tried not to notice the blackening stick figures ablaze in the lorry’s cab.
“Did we lose them all, Lieutenant?” Lynch asked.
Price slowly nodded. “I don’t think they even tried for one of the tanks, Corporal. Those Jerry pilots were following specific orders.”
“Knock out our supply of petrol and leave us stranded in the desert,” Lynch said.
“That’s right. And I fear that might be just what’s happened.” Price looked past Lynch, towards the corporal’s truck.
“How many full cans of petrol do you have aboard your truck?” he asked Lynch.
“We’ve only taken fuel from the lorries thus far, saving our own stores for emergencies,” Lynch replied. “Bloody fortunate of us, so it is.”
“Perhaps, and perhaps not,” Price said, and rubbed his chin as he glanced over to where Meade and Eldred were arguing again. Meade kept pointing at his tank, while Eldred repeatedly gestured towards the nearest Chevrolet.
“What’s all that about now?” Lynch asked.
“I would imagine the major is insisting we sacrifice the stores of petrol on the trucks and armoured cars in order to keep his tanks mobile,” Price replied.
Lynch stared open-mouthed at Price for a moment. “But, that’d mean we’d be stuck out here in the desert! It’s not our bloody problem that his great big tanks drink petrol like a red-nosed bishop drinks ale!”
Price’s eyebrows shot up, and he made an unobtrusive silencing motion with his hands. “Remember who you’re talking about, Corporal. Major Meade is still in command of this operation.”
“Some bloody operation,” Lynch growled under his breath. “More like a Fred Karno’s Army, if you ask me.”
“Fred Karno’s or not, we’re going to continue on and hit that airfield in the morning. We have no choice but to continue forward, because we can’t go back - we don’t have enough petrol to reach a friendly base.”
“And what if there’s no petrol at the airfield?” Lynch asked. “Maybe they only have aviation-grade spirit.”
Price shook his head. “They’ll have something, I’m sure. Every installation out here in the deep desert is an oasis of sorts. They’ll have petrol, although maybe not as much as we need.”
“What about getting on their RT and requesting a relief column?”
Price gave Lynch a rueful smile. “On the eve of the largest offensive of the desert war? No, I think not. We’re a handful of expendable men and vehicles, sent to poke Rommel in the backside so he doesn’t notice the fist coming for his nose until it’s too late. If we’re lost to the desert, as long as we’ve played our part, we’d be a small price to pay for the strategic advantage.”
“Well bugger me for a game of soldiers,” Lynch cursed, and with a departing salute to Price, he returned to his vehicle.
The butcher’s bill eventually made the rounds - a dozen men killed in the air attack, with all the lorries a complete loss. Thankfully, all the vehicles had been topped off before departing from the supply depot, so most were relatively well-provisioned. But everyone knew the Crusaders drank more heavily than the other vehicles, and while they had sufficient fuel to cover the thirty miles between them and the airfield, the endurance of Meadeforce beyond that target was dubious.
Before leaving the scene of the air attack, Lynch, Higgins, and Lawless brewed up a pot of char, adding plenty of sugar and milk to the strong tea. The comfort brought on by the ritual was sorely needed, and looking to the other vehicles of Meadeforce spread around the desert, Lynch saw the thin lines of smoke climbing up from other brews, as everyone used the time to have tea and even make a hot meal.
Higgins handed Lynch a tin plate with two slices of plundered Italian bread piled high with warmed bully beef. Lynch thanked his squadmate and ate slowly, washing down each bite with a sip of tea. His eyes moved between the sky above and the horizon ahead, and he felt taut and unsettled.
Lynch had volunteered for assignment to 3 Commando on the promise that he’d be making a strong contribution to the war effort. He had pictured himself crossing the channel in daring raids, creating havoc and causing the Nazis as much trouble as possible. All those months ago, when Lord Pembroke had spoken with him, the elderly gentleman had promised that Lynch and the men of his unit were a scalpel, a razor-sharp but delicate blade, to be used with skill and precision against carefully selected targets.
But out here, now, in the middle of the Libyan Desert, Lynch felt betrayed. Like Price had said, they were an expendable resource, men whose value lay only in pretending to pose a threat in order to hide a real one. The assignment could have been given to any of the countless infantry platoons in the 8th Army. It was only luck - bad luck to be sure - which had selected them for the mission out of geographical convenience, since they were already stationed at the Siwa oasis and without orders at the time.
Finishing his bread and bully beef, Lynch chased the meal with the last of his tea and scooped up a handful of sand, scouring clean his plate and cup. It was going to be a long war, and until it was over, he had little choice in the matter of assignments. The only thing left for him to do was perform his duties to the best of his ability, guard the backs of his mates, and kill as many Eyeties and Jerries as possible, so the war ended all the quicker.
Lynch heard the distant rumble of tank engines, and saw the rest of Meadeforce preparing to move out. By now, burial details had already attended to those men killed in the air attack, but thick black smoke still rose from the shattered wrecks of the lorries. The sight reminded Lynch all too well of the fall of France the year before.
Let’s hope this caper turns out differently, he thought. For all our bloody sakes.
Chapter Ten
The Luftwaffe Reconnaissance Airfield
November 16th, 1700 Hours
Karl Steiner was in high spirits. Although initially disappointed that only a half-dozen Stuka dive-bombers were sent in answer to his request, their mission to destroy the British forces’ supply vehicles was reported to be a complete success. With so few planes, Steiner had known there was no hope in destroying the armour itself; a direct hit with a bomb was necessary, and although a few tanks would have been destroyed, the action would have taken longer and with greater risk. But going after the soft-skinned transports was a much easier task. A bomb blast that merely sprayed shrapnel against the hull of a tank would rip apart a transport and its cargo with little difficulty, and while the Stuka’s machine guns were useless against a Crusader tank or armoured car, they’d wreak havoc against a lighter vehicle.
In the desert, the last two years had emphasized to both sides the value of logistics, with the vast distances traveled and the demand the rough terrain placed on both men and machines. Steiner knew each of the transports destroyed was, in its own way, more costly a loss to the approaching British than the destruction of a tank or armoured car. Kill one fighting vehicle, you only remove that one piece from the board. Kill a supply vehicle, and you have the potential to change the entire game.
And changing the game was Steiner’s g
oal. Standing in the airfield’s command tent with Kessler and Hasek, the three men pored over a hand-drawn map of the terrain around the airfield, sketched out by the Luftwaffe officer based on his observations while flying countless missions.
“I’ve taken my Kübelwagen out to this fold in the ground here,” Hasek pointed to a line on the map a kilometre from the airfield. “It isn’t much, but it is big enough to hide panzers.”
“Even my Panzer IVs?” Kessler asked.
Hasek nodded. “Yes, although just barely. You’ll have to be careful how you place them, but you will be able to stage them turret-down if you find the right spot. The rest won’t be a problem.”
“How will their howitzers compare against the British tank guns?” Steiner asked.
Kessler made a sour face. “Not as well as I’d like, but against the Tommy cruisers, even the HE shells will make quite a mess. Besides, the Panzer IIIs will be our primary tank-killers. If we’re lucky enough to get flank shots within a thousand metres, we’ll punch right through their armour.”
“What about the towed guns?” Hasek asked them. “No offense to you gentlemen, but they don’t look particularly impressive.”
“It isn’t the size of the shot that counts,” Kessler replied, “It’s the velocity and accuracy. Trust me, those Pak 36s are killers against light armour, especially if they have the advantage of surprise. Once they’re dug in along here,” Kessler pointed to a spot on the map, “they’ll be almost impossible for the Tommies to see, at least until it’s too late. A light anti-tank gun is far more difficult to spot than a panzer, even more so if it’s not silhouetted against the horizon.”
“And that leaves the eighty-eight,” Steiner’s finger tapped the airfield on the map. “Are you sure your men are capable of firing it effectively in combat?”
Hasek nodded. “As with the rest of the plan, surprise will be our greatest asset. If your ambush works, there will be enough confusion to give them quite an advantage early on, especially at great range. We’ll be able to kill Tommies at more than three kilometres.”
Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume II Page 7