Known as an MP2K, the smaller weapon was a shortened version of the standard Wehrmacht issue submachine gun. The ‘Kurz’, as it was often referred to colloquially in German hands, was predominantly provided to tank crews and other combat troops required to work in confined spaces. Kransky had ‘souvenired’ his example from an abandoned panzer in France two years before and had carried it with him ever since.
While posted to Scapa Flow, a woman by the name of Eileen Donelson had provided him some very effective modifications which included the 20cm-long suppressor currently screwed to its muzzle and the rather unique sight mounted above its receiver. She’d called it a ‘reflex’ sight, and unlike almost every other sighting system he’d ever encountered on a hand-held weapon, this one was most effective when used with both eyes open. Looking through its short, cylindrical lens would display a small amber aiming point that enabled the user to bring the weapon’s muzzle to bear very quickly in a firefight situation.
Both the sight and silencer had saved his life on several occasions since and he fully intended to one day thank her for them, if he were ever fortunate enough to meet her again. There wasn’t a day in those two years since that he didn’t think of her fondly, although he knew it didn’t pay to dwell too much on the past in his line of ‘work’.
He heard them coming long before they drew within visual range. The crunch of heavy boots and the sounds of bodies pushing awkwardly through underbrush were distinctly audible as the men he was waiting for made their way north along the western bank of Haltwhistle Burn. He took up the MP2K as a precaution – it didn’t pay to take things for granted, after all – and held it ready in both hands as he waited, still as a statue in the failing light of an afternoon that was quickly turning to dusk.
There were three of them in a strung-out line, doing their best to make as much noise as was humanly possible – or so it seemed to Kransky at least – as they followed the line of the stream toward his position, all dressed in dark-coloured jumpers, trousers and greatcoats. He waited until they were no more than five metres away before he spoke, and all of them jumped visibly as a seemingly disembodied voice suddenly ‘accosted’ them from the impenetrable, dark interior of the central lime kiln.
“Did you fellas phone ahead to make sure the Krauts knew where you were headed, or did you think the noise alone would be enough to bring every Nazi son-of-a-bitch within ten miles down on our position?” Kransky was soaking wet and frozen to the core and his voice carried a harsh and icy tone to match: after the better part of an entire week exposed to the elements in execrable weather, he was in no mood to be friendly.
“Fookin’ ‘ell…!” The man in the lead yelped with a start, his hand instinctively diving into the pocket of his greatcoat as the words caught him completely by surprise. “Wotcher playin’ at? Yer could give a man a bloody heart attack with that kind of carry on!” The first of the trio was short, quite rotund, and appeared to be in his late fifties at least. His flat, woollen cap was snugged down on a head that was predominantly bald save for a silver-grey strip around the perimeter of his scalp that was matched by a pair of similarly-coloured mutton-chop sideburns. If the man had done any military service or training it must’ve been a long time ago, and the American suspected he’d probably been a Land Defence Volunteer prior to the 1940 invasion.
“You’ll have more than a heart attack to deal with if you don’t get your hand out of your damn pocket!” Kransky snarled back, moving out of the shadows just enough to display the machine pistol in his hands. “I figure that’s a gun you’ve got in there and I’d appreciate it if it stayed right where it is.” The words had the desired effect and an empty hand was quickly snatched back out of his coat pocket as if the fellow had been stung.
“Keep your bloody shirt on, Yank,” the second in the line chimed in with a firmer, more confident tone. “That’s Corporal Harris you just scared the shit out of right there… I’m Sergeant Quinn, and that’s Captain Michaels behind me… and if I remember rightly, it’s you who needs our help: you could keep a civil tongue in yer head, if it’s all the same.” That man was younger and had the air of someone who’d seen his share of active service. The fact that he was present that evening rather than languishing in a Nazi internment camp meant the man had also spent the last two years in hiding and on the run. None of that meant he particularly deserved to be cut any slack in the American’s opinion however, and he was in no mood to play games.
“You guys were supposed to be here two days ago. If you’d turned up then instead o’ leaving me high-and-definitely-not-dry, and freezing my ass off in this shitty, Limey weather, I might be sounding a little less pissed off…!”
“You’d prefer we led the local Gestapo right up here with us to say hello?” Quinn shot back, his tone laced with sarcasm. “Those black-shirted bastards have been crawling all over the area this last week from Carlisle across to Hexham and back. …Been asking questions all around… seems they’re looking high and low for some lanky Yank with no fookin’ manners to speak of!” The hint of a dry smile began to curl the corners of his mouth as he added: “…That sound like anyone you know…?”
“Kinda sounds familiar, now you mention it,” Kransky finally allowed himself to relax a little and gave a grin. “Sorry fellas… Captain…” he added, nodding in deference to the rank of the man standing at the rear of the group, so far remaining silent but watching the exchange with great interest. “You’ll have to forgive my lousy mood: I been moving around without much rest for weeks now with the Krauts on my tail – been as far as Pemberton to Glasgow with the Gestapo on my case the whole time… guess they’re getting serious about tracking me down.”
“I figure that SS general getting blown up in Manchester back in July might’ve had something to do with that,” Captain Michaels observed, speaking for the first time. “Rumour has it he was a personal friend of Himmler’s, which would explain why they seem so annoyed with you.” Surprisingly, Michaels’ accent suggested an Irish heritage rather than English. Taller than Quinn, he was thin and wiry and looked agile on his feet, as if ready to move unexpectedly at any moment.
“Shitty thing is, that wasn’t even me…!” Kransky replied in a plaintive tone, lowering his machine pistol fully for the first time and moving completely into the open. “Why the fuck would I put a bomb in the son-of-a-bitch’s car when I could put a bullet through his head from half a mile away? I’m not denying I’ve been involved in some shit these last two years – most of it under orders from Melbourne – but there’s been just as much I’ve been blamed for in that time I’ve had nothing to do with!”
“Be that as it may, you’ve been fingered for it all the same, and there’ve been retaliatory executions as a result. If reports from the continent are to be believed, the Jerries have generally been quite even-handed here by comparison, but they’ve surely gone to town because o’ this… there’ve been close to three dozen old men and boys rounded up and shot so far in Cheshire alone, and many more in the surrounding counties.”
“I know,” Kransky muttered darkly, his eyes lowering suddenly toward the ground as he was momentarily unable to meet their gaze. “I know…” The fact that he’d not been the cause of that particular incident notwithstanding, it was a sobering situation nevertheless to know that innocent civilians were being murdered by the dozen in reprisal for actions attributed to him, rightly or not.
“In a way, it was lucky we were delayed a day or two,” Michaels continued, stepping past Quinn and Harris and drawing level with Kransky. “We received orders from Melbourne yesterday that you’re to head south to London to meet up with someone on their orders. The intention is for you to escort them north again to Scotland, and then on to Ireland and safety.” Melbourne, the capital of the southern Australian state of Victoria, had become the interim headquarters for the British Royal Family in exile and, by default, was generally the communications centre through which operational orders were transmitted to resistance cells still active t
hroughout the United Kingdom.
“Can’t say I’ll be sorry to finally be getting out of here,” Kransky admitted with an obvious display of relief. “Not real happy about heading back toward London, though, and getting to Ireland’s gonna be tough too… how’re we gonna do that?”
“Not a clue,” Michaels replied honestly. “That’ll be handled by someone further down the chain than us… for the moment, all I know’s that Quinn and I’ll be taking you as far as London, and I’ll be continuing on with you at least as far as Ireland. I’ve some friends there you’ll be meeting up with for the final leg of your journey.” He gave a thin smile. “I believe you may know one of them… a Volunteer Kelly…?”
“Eoin Kelly? That crazy son-of-a-bitch…?” As Michaels nodded, Kransky almost laughed at fond remembrance of a name he’d not heard in two years. In that moment, a few more pieces of the puzzle fell into place. “You’d be IRA then… had you pegged for military of some kind, but I was assuming British Army.”
“There was a time, not all that long ago, when I’d have killed a man for an insult such as that,” Michaels grinned in return, not offended at all. “There was also a time, I’d warrant, that Sergeant Quinn here would’ve shot me on sight for the rebellious, Irish bastard that I surely am…” His smile never wavered as the grinning sergeant behind him nodded faintly in agreement. “…But here we are all the same: necessity makes for strange bedfellows, and that’s a fact.”
“That it does… that it does…” Kransky admitted in agreement, suddenly seeing the unusual trio in a very different and far more positive light. He could tell Harris would barely be useful in a combat situation, but instinct told him that Quinn was someone he could trust to get the job done, and Michaels also seemed to have the demeanour of someone who knew what they were about. “Where to now, then…?” He added. “If it’s all the same, I’d rather be on the move than stuck in this freezing hell hole any longer.”
“There’s a resistance bunker hidden near a quarry about a mile or so north of here,” Quinn chimed in, also happy to be leaving the area. “It’s not much, but we can get you some food and a warm shower… and maybe some clean clothes, although I’m not sure we’ll have much that’ll fit you, considering your height and all.”
“The shower and some chow’ll be just fine,” Kransky replied fervently, almost excited at the prospect of feeling clean again.
“Let’s get moving then, shall we…?” Michaels suggested, just as eager as the rest to get out of the rain and closer to some warmth.
“Lead the way,” Kransky replied, turning back toward the rear of the kiln for a moment to retrieve the canvas rifle bag and sling it across his back. “Who’s this guy I’m supposed to be meeting up with?” He asked, taking up position at the rear as the group moved off together, now in a line of four.
“No idea,” Quinn admitted, “but Melbourne’s assured us that he’s important… I guess that’s all that matters.”
2. Beta Testing
8th Army Defensive Lines near Agruda
27km west of Suez, Egypt
September 13, 1942
Sunday
Captain James Morgan Davids drew a rolled-up sleeve across his forehead for what felt like the hundredth time already that morning and wiped away the fine film of perspiration collecting there. It’d barely reached ten o’clock, yet the temperature had already passed thirty degrees centigrade – almost ninety by the old Fahrenheit scale. The sun overhead was the only feature in a cloudless blue sky that was so bright it was almost painful to stare up into with unprotected eyes.
Hot weather notwithstanding, there was still work to be done and the generally desperate nature of their situation required officers to get their hands just as dirty as those of the men under their command. There were reports the Italian Littorio armoured division was marshalling near Ribeiqi, 50km east of Cairo and a similar distance west of their positions, and as there was nothing between the two forces other than empty desert and the Cairo-Suez Road, the enemy could cover the intervening distance with speed and relative ease should they so desire.
Standing on the northern side of that road, Agruda was a small settlement that lay approximately 18km west of the city of Suez. Little more than an irregular collection of adobe huts clustered about a central well, it held little historical significance to anyone living beyond the boundaries of the township itself and probably would’ve been lucky to even appear on most maps. Just a handful of families lived in the area, eking out a living from the land and surrounded by a desert that was mostly quite inhospitable.
The township’s anonymity had well and truly been lost however in that last month. Ten kilometres further west, along the main road to the Egyptian capitol, the 8th Army had established defensive lines as part of its final stand against the relentless advance of the Italians and the Deutsche Afrika Korps. With Axis forces in control of Cairo, and also Port Said to the north, it was a certainty that a final assault would come soon aimed at driving the British Army out of Egypt completely.
Few had any illusions as to the likely outcome of the impending battle, but the combat-seasoned veterans of the 8th Army were determined to buy valuable time for the flood of refugees and non-combat troops that had poured into Suez over the last few weeks. The defenders’ plight might seem ultimately hopeless, but they were prepared to inflict severe damage on their enemy in return for the defeat that was almost certainly coming.
“Shouldn’t do to make a habit of this, Jimmy…”
Davids glanced up from the trench he was digging to find his commanding officer, Major Knowles, calling across to him from a few metres away, at that moment leaning against a long-handled shovel similar to the one Davids held in his hands.
“These infantry chaps will expect their own officers to muck in as well if we keep carrying on like this,” Knowles added, the light-hearted remark drawing a chuckle from most of the men around them as they all worked hard on completing that final section of defences.
“Us ‘infantry chaps’ already know how to put in our share, Neville,” Lieutenant-Colonel Reg Anderson, CO of the Australian 2/28th Battalion jeered back from not far away, standing at the opposite end of a line of workmen. “Havin’ to walk everywhere instead of being driven about like Lord Muck tends to get you used to the occasional bit o’ hard work…!” There were several other officers of various rank nearby, all bending their backs to the job beside their men, and that was something that’d become a quite common sight about the defences there despite all the banter suggesting otherwise.
That response drew an even louder laugh from all within earshot, and Major Neville Knowles laughed too, having accomplished exactly the small boost to local morale he’d intended all along. Davids grinned with them and got straight back into digging, still smiling as he worked. He liked the ‘new’ British Army, although it was unfortunate it’d taken the invasion and subsequent occupation of Great Britain to create the catalyst for what had become almost a paradigm shift in the spirit of the service that had gone right to its very core in the two years since.
Two years ago… he thought, his body never stopping for a moment.
Two years ago, he’d barely been promoted to sergeant and had just taken command of his own tank. He’d been very fortunate to have received the promotion at the time, and being Welsh he’d also been subjected to his share of prejudice from others in the military of both higher and lower ranks along the way. It was also true the mild mistreatment he’d sometimes suffered through had been nothing compared to the discrimination exacted without a second thought on other enlisted men of more exotic backgrounds; backgrounds such as those of fellow soldiers from India, Africa or the Caribbean. Davids at least was white, and as such was almost considered an ‘acceptable’ human being – approximately on par with the Scots perhaps, and set slightly higher than the Irish in the pecking order of the day – and unless he revealed his lilting Welsh accent, there was little chance he’d be noted as being different at all.
Men of other races operated under no such ‘luxury’ of anonymity of course. Ancestry that traced back to Africa or the Sub-Continent generally carried with it varying degrees of darkness of skin that declared one’s ‘foreignness’ to all and sundry, and it mattered little that in some cases that man might’ve been a fourth- or fifth-generation citizen, born-and-raised with an accent that was as British as any other’s. None of that mattered when the colour of your skin was a badge to be worn 24 hours of the day, allowing one to be singled out for insult or ridicule without warning or mercy.
If he thought hard about it all, he’d reluctantly have to admit he’d also probably been guilty of some milder forms of discrimination himself over the years. It was easy to slip into the ‘mob mentality’ when surrounded by your peers and presented with the opportunity to make your own situation seem that little bit better by tearing pieces indiscriminately from someone else’s life. He’d never have considered himself a racist by the dictionary definition of the word, nor had he ever harboured genuine ill-feeling for another race in his life – save for the Germans and Italians of course, for obvious reasons – yet if he were being honest to himself, neither could he claim to be completely innocent either.
A good deal of that had changed however in the last two years. The British Army had developed a very egalitarian feel it had never before known, with class, race or social standing all taking a back seat to ability and intelligence as officers and enlisted men worked with and related to each other in their day to day duties. Davids suspected having one’s country invaded and oppressed beneath the boot heel of an enemy nation had gone a long way toward changing the perspective of the entire military and had acted as a great ‘leveller’ of men.
Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2) Page 4