Lynch thought of the featureless wasteland he’d watched pass by all day out the back of the Bedford. “And we’re supposed to find a secret enemy base somewhere in the middle of all this?”
Price smiled and clapped Lynch on the shoulder. “But of course, my dear fellow. The PM has every confidence in your capacity for performing the impossible.”
Later that night, Lynch sat on an empty wooden ration box and blew across the rim of his mug, trying to cool the scalding hot tea before he burned his tongue again. This far away from the coastline, the desert nights were even colder than he’d anticipated, and the mug of sweet tea was a welcome relief as the temperature plunged after sundown. Although he still wore the borrowed Eighth Army battledress, Lynch had draped a woolen blanket over his shoulders as a barrier against the night breeze that cut through the uniform’s light material as if it offered no protection at all. He saw several of the Desert Group men wearing native coats that hung almost to their ankles, and he envied their warmth.
Lynch looked up from his tea and glanced at the men sitting next to him. Along with Bowen, Lynch sat with Nelson and White around a small fire pit, dug down into the desert sand in order to help hide the flames from any distant observers. While they’d operated in France, their careful use of terrain meant they were often effectively invisible from anyone more than a hundred yards from their position. But out here in the desert, a small campfire could be seen from miles away by a pair of keen eyes. It was also taking some time to adjust to the fact that concealing their vehicles was an almost impossible task. Although the LRDG patrol bivouacked them in a shallow depression about a hundred yards across, there were hills miles away whose summits had a clear line of sight into their encampment. Instinctively, Lynch hunched his shoulders and bowed his head, thinking of mortar bombs or artillery shells screaming in from unseen, imaginary hilltop emplacements
“What’s the matter, Tommy? Afraid of the dark?” Nelson teased.
“I don’t like being so bloody exposed,” Lynch replied. “Nothing but flat sand and the dark for miles all around us. Plays with the mind, so it does.”
“First the plane, and now this? Are you sure that pale Irish skin of yours isn’t turning a wee bit yellow?” Nelson asked.
A silent shadow blacked out the stars behind Nelson, and a moment later the Commando bolted to his feet with a yelp and a start as a shovel-sized hand rested on his shoulder. Nelson spun and cursed as McTeague stepped into the firelight, his pipe sticking out from the corner of his mouth.
Lynch chuckled at his friend’s reaction. “Now who’s afraid of the dark, Harry?”
As Nelson settled back down onto the ground, McTeague squatted on his heels among them. The big Scot had his Thompson slung over his shoulder, loaded and ready for action. Lynch's own weapon leaned against his thigh, similarly ready. Although there was likely no one for miles around, all the Commandos had a long gun loaded and within reach.
“Enjoying our first night out under the African sky, lads?” McTeague asked.
Lynch took a moment and looked up. The vast panorama of stars above them was a little disorienting. The bowl of the night sky was unbroken by anything along the entire horizon, and the moon provided a good deal of light, but the stars were what drew the eye. Even in the blacked-out regions of France they’d visited over the course of the last year, Lynch had never seen such a crystal-clear view of the stars.
White drummed his fingers on the tin mug in his hands, his face turned skyward. “Rather beautiful sight actually, Sergeant. Like a million diamonds, spilled across black silk.”
All the men turned and looked at White, eyebrows raised.
“Well I’ll be damned!” Nelson laughed. “Bloody hell, despite the fact that you still look like a bleedin’ caveman five minutes after you’ve shaved, I do believe you’ve just given us proof you're a skirt!”
White glared at Nelson. Reaching down, he snatched up a small pebble, and with commendable accuracy, lobbed the missile into Nelson’s half-full mug of tea. The hot liquid splashed across Nelson’s hands and thighs, causing him to jump up and curse as he brushed at his wet uniform.
“You sodding wanker, you’ve ruined me char!” Nelson growled.
“Serves you right,” White fired back. “Just because the rest of you lot are a pack of illiterate savages, it doesn’t mean some of us don't enjoy picking up a book of poetry now and then. Plenty of soldiers down through the ages cobbled together a bit of verse on nights like these.”
“Oi, don’t you be lumping all of us in with this bloody Neanderthal!” Lynch replied, jerking his thumb at Nelson.
McTeague just shook his head. Pulling his pipe from his mouth, he stabbed the stem towards Bowen. “Lad, I cannae think how ye manage to stay sane around these idiots.”
Bowen just smiled and shrugged. “Well Sergeant, I just remember they’re all bigger than I am, meaning they’re easier targets, as well as good cover and concealment.”
At that, everyone laughed. Nelson refilled his tea, and the mood around the fire returned to a more placid state. After a few minutes of silence, as the men worked at drinking their tea, Nelson let out a speculative grunt.
“That signify anything?” Bowen asked.
“Odd, ain't it?” Nelson replied. “When I was a wee lad, me mum took me to a museum. Saw me a mummy, I did. One of them royals, the Pharaohs, they's called 'em. Sign said he'd been dead for four thousand years. Can you bloody imagine? Them blokes what built the pyramids, they were doin' that when we were squattin' in holes dug in the sides of hills an' such.”
Lynch nodded. “Greece was old when Rome was young, but Egypt was old when Greece was young. The kings of these lands have been marching armies across this desert since men learned to fight like soldiers, so they have.”
“And for what reason?” Bowen mused. He dug his hand into the desert and let the sand trickle through his fingers. “You can't grow food or raise animals here. Can't even find a drop of water. Doesn't seem worth killing over.”
McTeague took his pipe from his lips and knocked it out against the edge of his boot before standing up to tower over his men.
“More often than not, lads,” he said, “kings don't need a reason to send men off to war. All they really need is an excuse.”
With that, McTeague kicked sand over their small fire, putting out the flames.
“Off to ye beds, now, and get some rest. Tomorrow we're hunting Jerries.”
Chapter 14
One Hundred Fifty Miles South of Mersa Matruh
October 30th, 0500 Hours
The strike force rose before the dawn and prepared for battle. Each of the Commandos under Eldred's command cleaned and loaded their personal weapons, and the NCOs in each section looked over the men, their kit, and the heavy weapons and supplies the Commandos had brought with them from England. The LRDG patrol, led by a Captain Clarke, redistributed some of their supplies aboard the Bedfords so that a Commando could ride with each of the patrol's vehicles. Eldred wanted his men to observe Clarke's, not only so the two forces could work better together, but so they could serve as replacements in the event that some of the LRDG vehicle crews became casualties.
That possibility, however, was one Eldred made clear to his men he wanted to avoid at all costs. “The men of the Desert Group have extremely specialized training,” he cautioned, “and losses in their ranks are not easily replaced. I don't want to seem as if I am devaluing our own lives, but the role of the Desert Group is to navigate and guide us to our target. They are not - repeat, not - to engage the enemy except in self-defense, or if they are ordered to do so by Captain Clarke.”
The two Morris armoured cars were to remain with the strike force, although their worth in the coming mission was debatable. Their armaments weren't impressive enough on their own to warrant the cars’ presence, but their commanding officer, Captain Moody, felt obliged to offer his services for the duration of the mission. He pointed out that one of his fellow officers, a Lieutenant L
ewis, had gone missing with a supply convoy a week earlier, and Moody owed it to his friend to stand fast and support the Commandos.
“The lads and I are looking for payback,” Moody said. “And a few more big guns can't hurt.”
“No offense old chap,” Eldred replied, “but if that’s the case, couldn't you have brought guns that were even bigger?”
By the time the sun began to climb into the sky, the strike force, all eighteen vehicles, was on the move. The Chevrolets of the LRDG led the way, followed by the five Bedfords blocked in front and back by the two armoured cars. The convoy stretched for almost half a mile, spread out to keep the amount of choking dust to a minimum, as well as make them a more dispersed and difficult target in case of an air attack.
Lynch was assigned a seat on the second LRDG vehicle in the convoy. Bowen was riding in the scout car several miles ahead of everyone else, contributing his keen eyes to the car's reconnaissance role. Johnson, Bowen's spotter, fretted like a faithful hound that'd been left behind while its master went hunting alone. Lynch felt sorry for Johnson, knowing that the two men trained and fought together as a team to the point where they could communicate entirely without speech, everything conveyed with subtle hand gestures and eye movements. Splitting up such a partnership left each man feeling a bit at sea, but orders were orders.
As for Lynch, he found himself in the company of one Corporal Jack Lawless, the commander of the 30cwt Chevrolet leading the convoy proper. The vehicle normally carried three men, but some fuel cans and ration boxes had been shifted to one of the Bedfords to free up both weight and room enough for Lynch to ride along. The Chevrolet was armed with a Vickers gun on a tall pintle mount to the rear of the vehicle and a Lewis gun at the front passenger's seat. Lawless and the two other men, all New Zealanders like most of the LRDG troops, carried sidearms and kept long guns aboard the vehicle. Nelson's comment about pirates came to mind as Lynch climbed aboard and took in all the weapons, ammunition, and supplies stowed everywhere space could be found.
Lawless noticed Lynch’s eyes going wide as he worked to find a comfortable space for his Thompson, pack, and his own backside. “Sorry the old girl’s a bit choc-a-block, but any place you can wedge in your bum and kit is fine by us.”
Eventually Lynch shoehorned himself in between a petrol can and an ammunition box, trying not to think about what would happen if either were hit by incendiary munitions. Sitting on a ration box, he folded his bedroll into a makeshift seat cushion, crammed his pack behind him, and found a place where he could wedge the stock of his Thompson so the weapon wouldn’t rattle around. Lawless looked back and nodded his approval.
“Like a natural, you are! By the way, this here’s Budgie and Nichols.” Lawless pointed to the men in the front passenger seat and back seat, respectively.
Lynch shook each man’s hand. “Tommy Lynch, good to meet you lads.”
As Lawless put the Chevrolet in gear and began leading the rest of the convoy out of their encampment, Budgie turned around in his seat to talk to Lynch.
“So, Tommy, what regiment d’you come from? Before the Commandos, I mean,” he asked.
“I was in the Royal Irish Fusiliers, joined up and served for a little while before shipping out with the BEF,” Lynch explained. “Got knocked about a bit in France, then made if off the beach at Dunkirk with the rest of the lads, so we did.”
“Got stuck in with Jerry while you were over there, eh?” Nichols asked him.
“Aye, so I did, now. We were torn up for sure at Arras, but most of the RIF made it out of France. Bloody Fritzes and their panzers! But I suppose you lads have your share of panzers out here?”
Budgie nodded. “Your old friend Erwin moved his rolling circus into Libya and proceeded to entertain us for a while. But, I suppose it's more interesting than sitting back home and herding sheep!”
“You're forgetting,” Nichols piped up, “there might be shepherding back home, but there's also skirts to chase!”
“Nichols old son,” Lawless interjected, “I thought you couldn't tell the difference!”
They all broke into laughter, Lynch included, and soon it was clear that Lynch's outsider status was no longer a concern to the New Zealanders.
As the sun climbed higher in the sky, Lynch experienced the unbridled fury of the daytime desert for the first time. Unprotected by a tin roof or a canvas cargo cover, his skin felt like it was being seared by a blowtorch, and the thick shock of black hair on his head absorbed so much heat, he felt like his brain was boiling inside his skull. Fearing ridicule from the New Zealanders, Lynch tried to remain stalwart, but by mid-morning it was clear that he was suffering terribly. Nichols rummaged around in one of the packs lashed down near at hand and produced a floppy canvas hat, which Lynch gratefully accepted. Nichols also found him a lightweight long-sleeved shirt to wear that covered up his bare arms, which were now turning a decidedly dangerous shade of bright pink.
“Ain't going to be of any use to us or anyone else if you're passed out from bloody heat-stroke before afternoon tea time,” Nichols advised.
The extra protection helped, as did drinking a full pint of water. The LRDG men were trained to survive in the desert on only six pints of water a day for all purposes, a restriction brought on by the limitations of operating on their own for extended periods of time without resupply, carrying everything they needed in their vehicles. But on this mission, not only were their supplies bolstered by the extra cargo space aboard the Commandos' transports, but they were operating relatively close to both their own headquarters at the Siwa Oasis and the Jerabub Oasis. For the first time in some months, the Desert Group men could relax their restrictions on water usage...at least a little bit. And they also understood that although the Commando troops were tough, fit soldiers, they weren't prepared for the harsh conditions encountered during deep desert operations.
As his suffering lessened slightly, Lynch found himself better able to observe his newfound brothers in arms and how they operated. The scout car, several miles ahead of the others, served as the trailblazer, finding sand that would bear the weight of the other vehicles and provide sufficient traction to avoid someone getting stuck. The vehicles that followed the scout car drove along the scout's trail, often trying to keep their wheels in the scout's tracks.
While operating the vehicle was the job of the driver, the other crew weren't simply along for the ride. Lynch saw that Budgie kept a record of their speed, bearing and travel time in a log book. Instead of a regular compass, Budgie used a very complex-looking sundial, mounted next to him on the dashboard. Using the sundial and his pocket watch to judge their bearing, he kept a map constantly updated with their closest approximate location.
“Does every car maintain its own map?” Lynch asked.
“You have to,” Budgie replied. “There's always the possibility you could be separated from the rest of the patrol. If that happens, and you don't know where you are, you're vulture food.”
While Budgie maintained the map, Nichols kept his head on a swivel with a pair of field glasses, constantly scanning both the horizon and the sky for any signs of the enemy.
“If we spot a Jerry plane,” he advised Lunch, “we hide first, fight last. We'll try and get the camouflage netting in place and hope we're not spotted. The desert's a bloody big place from a mile in the air, and if our profile's broken up a bit, those Jerry bastards will have a devil of a time spotting us.”
“And what do we do now, if we are spotted?” Lynch asked.
Nichols patted the pintle-mounted Vickers gun next to them. “Then we find out just how ducky my aim is, at least if the idiots try to get within a half-mile of us.”
“What're the chances of anyone shooting down a Storch?” Lynch asked, referring to the German reconnaissance plane.
“About a thousand to one,” Nichols replied with a grin. “But at least we'll feel better.”
Lynch refrained from pointing out that during the retreat to Dunkirk, he and many other
infantrymen had taken potshots with rifles and Brens at the attacking Stukas. It had done little to make them feel better while they were being bombed and strafed with impunity.
Morning turned to afternoon, and the strike force steadily approached the Libyan border. Lynch had fallen into a near-stupor after their midday meal and water ration, so it wasn't until Nichols reached over and shook his arm that Lynch realized the New Zealanders had spotted something. Looking up, Lynch saw a dust plume and a fast-approaching speck on the horizon.
“Jerries?” he asked Budgie, who was observing the vehicle through a pair of field glasses.
“Yes and no,” Budgie replied. “That's the scout car, coming back at top speed. But there's only one reason they'd be moving so fast and leaving that kind of plume in the sky.”
Lynch immediately knew the answer. “Aye. We've been rumbled.”
Chapter 15
Thirty Miles North-East Of Jerabub Oasis
October 30th, 1300 Hours
Hauptmann Karl Steiner thumped his fist on the roof of the Autoblinda's turret. “Faster, you lazy turds!” he shouted in Italian at his driver. “We can't lose the element of surprise!”
Steiner reminded himself that here in the desert, where a man could see for miles with the unaided eye, surprise was relative. He'd achieved surprise against the Englishman Lewis' convoy not through being unseen, but by being seen all too easily, and fooling his quarry long enough to lure them in close, where they had no hope of escape or victory.
Now, however, he believed his target wasn't some slow-moving supply convoy, but rather, one of the British long-range scouting patrols, their “Desert Group”. He'd heard reports of these motorized patrols poking their noses around his army’s flanks, sniffing for vulnerabilities and possible attack routes. Although he’d exchanged fire at a distance with their cars before, he’d never been able to capture one of these men, never mind an entire patrol.
Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume I Page 38