The Dead Alone (Empires Lost Book 3)

by Charles S. Jackson

  “You think we goin’ south…?” Farmer added, and Esprit knew he was really asking if they’d be heading for the Pacific, via the Panama Canal.

  “Hell, yeah, they’ll send us south,” he replied without a moment’s thought. “With that ‘Führer’ feller and his boys stompin’ up an’ down all over Britain and the rest o’ Europe, where else we gonna go…?” He shook his head slowly. “Shee-it… everybody knows the Japs are itchin’ t’ start somethin’… ‘s only a matter o’ time…”

  The line continued to move, and they moved with it; silent, shivering and looking forward to at least some opportunity for rest after a long day and night of travelling. None of them even knew where they were going: that was information that was disseminated on a ‘need-to-know’ basis, and in Jean-Antoine’s humble opinion, very few high-ranking army officers ever bothered to advise their men of much at all unless it was absolutely necessary… and even then, only at the last possible moment.

  The lines continued up the multitude of long, sloping gangways, feeding an entire division of fifteen thousand men onto the decks of the second-largest ocean liner on Earth. It would close to midday before she finally passed through Lower New York Bay, south of Breezy Point, and to the great surprise of Jean-Antoine Esprit and almost everyone else aboard, she turned east for the North Atlantic at best possible speed.

  Kibrit Airfield

  20 miles north of Suez, Egypt

  October 3, 1942

  Saturday

  There was smoke and dust everywhere as Sturmbannführer Michael Wittmann climbed onto the rear of the wrecked Allied tank and turned to survey the surrounding area. Not far from the runways of what had until yesterday been an RAF air base, he could easily see at least a dozen fires still burning from the battles of the last twenty-four hours. The air stank of ash and death, and now and again the sound of a shot or the dull thud of a distant explosion still floated past on the hot, desert wind as elements of the Panzer Armee Afrika mopped up small pockets of Allied resistance.

  Wittmann grimaced as a several pistol shots rang out from nearby. Being part of an elite SS armoured unit, Nazi political officers were never far away, and many had taken it upon themselves to execute some Allied prisoners out of hand. The young tank commander suspected it likely it was the first time many of them had fired their weapons anywhere near the enemy, but he knew better than to say anything to that effect: although one might call the courage of a political officer into question, no one ever questioned their capacity for recall, particularly regarding others speaking out against their actions.

  At twenty-eight years of age, Wittmann was a rising star within the 1st SS Shock Division (the infamous Leibstandarte-SS Adolf Hitler). Born to a Bavarian farming family, he’d enlisted in the German Army in 1934 and transferred to the SS three years later. With fifty tank kills and a similar number of anti-tank guns to his credit, he was already something of a household name in Nazi Germany, and having proven himself time and again as an able and intelligent tank commander during that first three years of war, Wittmann had already reached the position of 2IC (second-in-command) of the 1st Panzer Regiment of the LSSAH.

  “She’s a big bitch, and no denying it!” That coarse but no less accurate observation came from within the tank itself as Oberstgruppenführer Josef ‘Sepp’ Dietrich’s head poked through the open, smoke-blackened commander’s hatch, his sharp eyes squinting at the sudden return to sunlight. “At least some poor bastard has shown a little decency and cleared what was left of the crew out,” he added with a little less fervour. “Only about half of these hits appear to have actually penetrated from what I can see, and most of those are only to the right flank, from your Panthers. Maybe two shells from the Makkaroni did any real damage.”

  “They helped all the same,” Wittmann countered with another grimace, this one hinting at grudging admiration. “That Italian troop leader knew their guns were useless, but he threw his boys in anyway to draw them off and buy us some time.”

  “A Leutnant Arbib, I believe,” Dietrich nodded in agreement as he made some effort of lifting his large frame out through the hatch and climbing up to stand beside Wittmann. “Don’t worry: I’ve already passed on our appreciation to Berlin, and they’ll make sure Il Duce hears of it…” the corners of his mouth quirked at the hint of a sarcastic grin. “Maybe he’ll finally have a name to put on that bloody bridge of his.”

  There was a story circulating within the Wehrmacht that Mussolini, buoyed with the idea of all the glorious victories his fascist armies would undoubtedly win for Rome, had declared soon after the Italians entered the war in 1940 that there would be a ‘Bridge of Heroes’ to be covered with the names of men who’d committed great acts of bravery in the battles to come. By the time of full German involvement in North Africa eighteen months later, the running joke held that there’d never been a single name added, and Wittmann had heard Dietrich himself on occasion suggest rather unkindly that a bridge carrying the names of Italian soldiers with the fastest sprint time away from enemy might’ve been far more likely to have produced results.

  Wittman had seen firsthand that the fighting ability of the average Italian soldier was generally no better or worse than any other, although that ability had in the past often been let down by a lack of suitable training, equipment or – more importantly – leadership. The joke always drew a laugh from him all the same.

  Commanding officer of the 1st SS Shock Division Leibstandarte, fifty-year-old Dietrich was a huge bear of a man as loved and respected by his own men as he was disliked by his superiors. Considered by many above him to be boorish, uneducated and barely competent for command, he’d nevertheless shown a talent for picking fine junior officers and had taken the LSSAH from one victorious battle to the next with a minimum of fuss or delay. A butcher and hotel servant prior to his enlistment in the Bavarian Army, he’d served with the Artillery Corps during the First World War and had moved across to armoured units as Germany had rearmed during the 1930s.

  Wittman took another look at the huge tank and turned through a full 360-degrees. It truly was a huge vehicle that he had no doubt weighed well over sixty tons, standing eight feet high and over thirty long when including the barrel of its huge, 10cm main gun. The day before, it and another like it had between them almost turned back an entire assault, and only a combination of attack from two fronts and the conscious sacrifice of many vital tank crews as bait had enabled numerically-superior forces to surround and destroy it.

  Scarred and stained with smoke and soot as it was, the original paint scheme of overall tan with blotches of blacks, browns and greens showed through – a camouflage scheme somewhat at odds with anything else to be seen in the North African theatre. It was still an intimidating sight even now, blackened and burned as it was, with its gun hanging limp, off to one side. That was particularly true for those who’d already seen it in in action – Wittmann being one – and that was the main problem in the man’s mind regarding the wreck of the steel behemoth on which he was standing; a problem as clear as the black, stencilled insignia of a leaping kangaroo on either side of the turret, along with a single word: ‘JAKE’.

  Just a week before the final attack on Commonwealth Forces in North Africa, Wittman and nineteen other commanders had taken possession of brand new P-4D Panthers, the D-model being the latest variant of the Wehrmacht’s potent Allgemeine Panzer – what the allies were now calling an MBT, or Main Battle Tank. With an 88mm gun far more powerful than that of the A-model it replaced, the Wehrmacht had believed the new tank to be the finest in the world. Less than twenty-four hours ago, he and many of his fellow tankers had been shown how wrong that belief truly was by two Australian prototypes mounting high-velocity 105mm main guns; tanks that had proven to be almost impervious to most Axis anti-tank weapons at anything other than suicidally close range. Many of those same fellow tankers had not survived the encounter.

  “What was the word on the other tank, Mein Herr…?” He asked after a moment�
�s pause.

  “Oh, they found what was left of that over by the main gates…” Dietrich replied, waving a disinterested hand in vaguely the correct direction. “Blown to Kingdom Come by some bloody Kriegsmarine rocket by all accounts… something Reuters and bloody Dönitz have been keeping quiet about…” He shook his head. “It was a bloody bloodbath down by those gates – saw it myself – and I’ll give you any odds you like; a lot of the dead black-arses over there weren’t killed by our rockets or artillery: the British were shooting ‘em down… to stop ‘em getting in, that’s my guess…”

  Their conversation halted for a moment as an entire gruppe of Grief heavy bombers howled past overhead at what seemed to be excessively low level, forcing both men to cover their ears and wince with discomfort. The twin-engined Heinkel B-8B was big and fast and could carry up to six tonnes of bombs or other ordnance. It took some time for the forty or so aircraft to pass by on their southerly heading in ten schwarm of ‘finger-four’ formations.

  “I thought the assault was over?” Wittmann growled, a sour expression on his face as he watched them fly on.

  “With the Tommis, yes…” Dietrich grunted, caring even less about that subject “…but there’s still fighting going on against rebel Egyptian forces, particularly at Suez.” He have a shrug. “It appears the silly bastards thought that just because they rose up against the British, we might be willing grant them their independence.” There was a snort of derision now as he considered the ludicrous nature of such a supposition. “They managed to take most of Suez before we got there, and now they don’t seem inclined to hand it over. Abwehr intelligence estimates the likely force numbers at somewhere around fifty thousand or more…” another shrug, and he cocked a thumb in the direction of the departing planes. “We’ve enough trouble rounding up what’s left of the Tommis at the moment, and there’s too bloody many to shoot all of ‘em if we want to be done by Christmas, so the Luftwaffe’s been called in to convince them of the error of their ways.

  “Nehring told me this morning that Reuters was furious about us bombing civilians…” he chuckled again, then added: “The Führer didn’t give a shit however, and even a Reichsmarschall has to do what he’s told when Adolf gives an order. Serves the bastards right, I think… we’ll soon make them sorry they’ve gotten on our bad side! So… what do you think, Michael…?” He asked cheerfully, immediately changing the subject and stomping heavily with his boot as the turret roof gave a hollow, metallic ring. “Fifty tonnes…?”

  “Sixty… at least…” Wittmann replied without a moment’s thought. “Not much room down there for her size – she’s all armour!” He nodded down at the turret side, indicting two small, puckered holes below his feet where shaped-charge rounds had managed to burn their way through the vehicle’s tough hide. “Check the edges of those holes: it’s not just rolled plate they’re using... looks like layers built up from steel, aluminium and something else I’m not sure of… maybe ceramic… or some kind of glass…?”

  “I’m bloody glad you’re on our side, boy!” Dietrich grinned broadly with an appreciative shake of his head. “You don’t miss a damned thing! Don’t worry… we’re already organising transport to Alexandria for these big buggers, and then back home to the RFR so they can pull them apart and see what makes them tick. You’ll be driving one yourself by summer!”

  And how many of these will they have by summer? Sturmbannführer Michael Wittmann wondered silently, but he simply nodded and affected an agreeable smile.

  Ampol Offshore Oil Platform AOP-1

  Marlin Oil Field, Bass Strait

  October 5, 1942

  Monday

  Bass Strait separated the island state of Tasmania from mainland Australia, running east to west between the Tasman Sea and the Great Australian Bight. To the north lay the southern mainland state of Victoria, its capital – Melbourne – currently also home to the British Government-in-Exile and the Royal Family. Filled with numerous islands and no more than 200 feet deep throughout most of its length, the strait was at its narrowest point twice as wide as the English Channel, was reputed to be twice as rough, and was notorious for its difficult conditions, particularly during winter.

  It was into this environment that Ampol Offshore Oil Platform No.1 had been erected. AOP-1 was yet to be commissioned, and had been towed out to its current position off the Gippsland coast just three weeks earlier, 40 miles south-east of Lakes Entrance. Constructed on land at a huge new facility set up at the Barry Beach Marine Terminal, south east of Melbourne, its four huge, hollow legs of reinforced concrete and their connecting framework had been floated in one piece and towed 120 miles east into Bass Strait before being sunk to the sea floor under heavily-controlled conditions.

  William Walkley stared out through the side window of the company’s Sikorsky S-48 as it circled around the platform on final approach. The utility helicopter – known as the UH-9A Chickasaw in US and Allied military service – was an incredibly versatile aircraft that had quickly become an essential requirement for logistical support of the burgeoning offshore oil industry. The Chickasaw was a relatively large helicopter with a two-man crew, and was normally capable of carrying ten passengers, although this particular aircraft was kitted out for the far more luxurious carriage of just six executives in comfortable, padded leather seats It was also equipped for amphibious operations if necessary, and rather than a ‘four-poster’ arrangement of wheels fixed below its fuselage, it instead carried a pair of long, thick flotation pontoons for operation on either land or sea.

  It was a well-appointed aircraft, all things considered, although there was unfortunately little that could be done to mask the clattering howl of the Pratt & Whitney radial engine positioned in its very nose, directly forward and below the cockpit, with the shrouded main driveshaft running straight up through the front of the main cabin area to the rotor hub above. Named Serena by Walkley himself, the chopper was painted a pristine white overall and displayed the company logo – AMPOL – in large, red capitals bordered above and below by blue bars.

  The Otaki-born 46-year-old had come to Sydney with a New Zealand business partner to set up the Australian Motorists Petroleum Company Ltd, more commonly known as Ampol. Modelled on an idea they’d already run successfully in New Zealand under the name of Europa, Ampol had since become the largest petroleum distributor in Australia. Walkley was also currently serving on the wartime Oil Advisory Committee and on the board of Pool Petroleum Pty Ltd, both organisations involved in the wartime distribution of fuel.

  “You say they’re drilling in about two hundred feet of water…?” That question came from Lyle Davis, a short, stocky Texan seated directly behind Walkley. A member of the board of directors for the US oil company Texaco, he and his chief engineer had come to Australia specifically to take a look at AOP-1 and her new design. Texaco and one of her sister companies, Caltex, were working with Ampol and Royal Dutch Shell to develop a number of potential new offshore fields both in Australian Waters, and also in the Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean.

  “Two hundred and thirty to be exact,” Walkley replied with a nod, both forced to shout over the howl of the engine. “This is the process of ‘ConDeep’ exactly as originally envisioned: build ‘em onshore, tow ‘em out and sink ‘em into position in one piece. The legs are hollow, which helps with buoyancy during the towing process, and when she’s operational in a couple of months’ time, we’ll be able to use the legs for oil storage while they’re waiting for the next tanker.”

  “Yeah; we’ve been given the same technology but we ain’t got it into production yet,” Davis advised, mostly hiding a sour tone as he remembered how Texaco had pleaded and cajoled the owner of that technology to offer it to them alone. Their pleas had fallen on deaf ears in spite of the promise of huge licensing payments, and much to their dismay, the billionaire known as Max Thorne had instead provided the plans and technical details of ConDeep (Concrete Deep Water Structure) free of charge to every major oil company in
the US and Allied markets. “That’s one of the reasons we’re over here right now,” he continued. “We want to get a good look at how you Aussies are doin’ things, and see if you can give us a few good ideas…”

  And see if there’s anything were doing wrong too, Walkley thought silently, deciding it wasn’t worth correcting the Texan over the ‘You Aussies’ remark and instead choosing to ignore it.

  “Never got a chance to say how sorry I was over what happen to Torkild, by the way,” Walkley ventured instead. “Only met him a couple of times but he seemed like a decent fellow… I didn’t believe any of that rubbish in the press about him being a sympathiser.”

  “Neither did any of us,” Davis replied, nodding sadly, “but true or not, sales were suffering and there wasn’t anything else to be done. He was a good friend of mine… nasty business all round…”

  Both were referring to the sacking two years earlier of Torkild Rieber, Texaco CEO at the time, whose past business dealings with Nazi officials had drawn a cloud over his reputation and that of the company as a whole. Further meetings through the middle of 1940 with a German agent posing as a trade official, including a party at the Waldorf Astoria, were leaked to the American Press by the British secret service, and the public outcry that followed had resulted in a slump in Texaco’s sales… one large enough to force the board to demand Rieber’s resignation. It had been a difficult and fiery board meeting, and a particularly unpleasant one for Davis, who’d considered himself a personal friend of the sacked CEO.