8th Army Defensive Lines near Agruda
27km west of Suez, Egypt
Sunset; and a general sense of relief and jubilation had fallen across the trenches on the Cairo-Suez Road as darkness diminished any real likelihood of another attack. None were under any illusions regarding the fact that the assault they’d turned back that morning had been anything more than a half-hearted probe at their defences, but they’d given their enemy a severe mauling all the same and any such victory, no matter how small, was cause for some celebration.
The sun was long gone now beneath the darkness of the western horizon, leaving just the hint of a red-orange glow in the sky that continued to fade as the minutes passed. The temperature was still holding in the mid-twenties (centigrade) but it felt a good deal cooler in real terms now that the added intensity of the sun’s rays had disappeared. A faint breeze ghosted across the desert sands from the south-east, bringing with it just a bare hint of coolness as it rolled in across the dark waters of the Gulf of Suez before moving further inland.
Eileen Donelson had spent a large part of that afternoon debriefing the two crews manning prototypes XFV001 and XFV002 during the battle that morning. Both tanks had performed perfectly in their first combat engagements and that was particularly so for Davids’ vehicle – the one nicknamed ‘Jake’ – which had taken a glancing blow from an Italian tank gun of both large calibre and high velocity and had amazingly survived the ordeal with no noticeable after-effects save for a single large groove of bare, molten metal on the side of its turret where the enemy’s HEAT round had failed to penetrate.
They’d all finally finished for the day some time after sunset and had headed off for well-earned meals at their respective mess tents. It was only then as she walking briskly across the sands and parallel to the Cairo-Suez Road that Eileen first spotted Max Thorne. Dressed in standard-issue nondescript desert-patterned camouflage fatigues and wide-brimmed, US-style ‘boonie’ hat and with his ubiquitous satchel slung over his shoulder as usual, the only deference to rank displayed on his person were a pair of shoulder-boards in faded colours that declared him to be an air vice marshal.
He was standing by the cab of one of their GMC support trucks, the line of six not parked too far from the large tent that served as an officers’ mess, and seemed to be engaged in conversation with someone via the hand-held microphone of the small radio transceiver he kept clipped to his belt – a unit identical to one she also carried. The fact that she was not hearing any of the discussion over her own device suggested he was speaking on another channel, most likely with the local HQ at Suez or possibly even further afield.
He stood facing off to one side as he spoke but she nevertheless got the distinct impression that he’d spotted her as she approached at a moderate pace, adjusting her direction slightly and heading straight for his position rather than for the nearby mess tents. She was quite surprised at that moment to also note a fleeting expression of some discomfort flicker across his features as he suddenly made a great effort to disengage himself from the radio conversation, as if meaning to leave quickly.
“Okay… okay… well I still bloody-well need you to find out what the silly prick’s up to – he hasn’t checked in for his weekly report…! Thorne over-and-out…! Oh… hey, Eileen,” he added quickly, almost stammering and sounding vaguely nervous as he turned toward her, neither the sound of his voice and the uncertain smile he gave with it going unnoticed.
“Finally decided to spend some time with ‘us mortals’ I see, Max,” she observed with a dry smile, knowing exactly what she could get away with around him in the name of good-natured humour. “…Starting to think you were going to spend the whole time back at Suez – we’ve nought seen you up here at the CP more than two or three times since you got here.”
“Yeah, things are a bit hectic at the moment,” he admitted, his own wry grin seeming more genuine as he relaxed into far more comfortable subjects of conversation. “Never realised how much I’d come to rely on Rupert to take care of so much of the penny-ante shit that goes on from day to day…” He gave a shrug and a grimace. “Sent the bugger on to Oz to get a few things sorted over there and now I’m bloody struggling, I have to admit.”
“Everything OK back in Australia…?” Eileen had known Thorne long enough to know he was at least partially trying to change the subject but she consciously ignored that fact for the time being.
“In Australia… yes… not so much however in some of the ‘colder climates’ we’re involved with.” Which Eileen instinctively knew meant Occupied Europe in a Northern Hemisphere currently moving toward winter. “Kransky’s gone bloody ‘walkabout’ and they’re having trouble locating him.”
“Richard’s missing?” That piece of information drew Eileen’s attention completely. She and Kransky had worked closely together for some months prior to the German invasion of Britain and had developed a very close friendship as a result; a friendship that to varying extent harboured some deeper feeling on both sides.
“…Missed his latest scheduled status report,” Thorne shrugged, not hiding his own displeasure. “Last orders were to sit tight in Northumberland and hide out with the local resistance units there: bloody SS has been scouring the whole country looking for him since that bastard, Kruger got whacked.” He gave a short of derision. “The irony of it all of course being he had nothing to bloody do with the assassination, but the Krauts are hardly going to take my fuckin’ word for it. I’ve got the MI6 station in Singapore chasing up his last known whereabouts with the resistance and the IRA… someone out of that lot must know what’s going on.”
“He’ll be okay,” she breathed softly, more hopeful than certain as fear showed in her voice.
“He’d bloody-well better be!” Thorne snapped, using frustration to mask his own concern for a friend. “He’s far too valuable an asset to lose and that’s a bloody fact!” He snorted again, this time adding a sharp, dismissive shake of the head for greater emphasis. “Anyway, enough of that for the moment… we’re not here to talk about my bloody problems.” He forced a smile and threw a nod toward the squat silhouette of Jake in the middle distance beyond the cluster of tents. “Those boys gave the bloody ‘guineas’ a kick in the ass and that’s for sure!” That last sentence caused Eileen to raise an eyebrow in mild surprise at his blatant use of a peculiarly American derogatory slang term for Italians.
“Listen, mister,” she changed the subject once more, choosing to ignore the unexpected terminology and instead concentrate on the growling in her stomach. “I’ve just finished five hours of debriefing and I’m bloody hungry, but there’ll be drinks on at the officer’s mess tent later…” She made a half-hearted, mock attempt at an air of allure as she added: “…maybe you could ‘buy’ me a drink and we could talk some more…?”
“I’d love to do just that, kid,” Thorne answered immediately, a little too quickly in her opinion to be altogether sincere, “but I’ve really gotta wait for the call back from Singapore. I’ll definitely come by after that if I get the chance and we can catch up then… if that’s ok…?”
“Aye… I guess so…” She conceded reluctantly, inwardly displeased over the feeling she was getting that he was almost certainly trying to fob her off. “…Maybe later then…”
“You bet…!” He agreed eagerly, the wide and characteristically toothy grin at least going some way toward assuaging her concerns.
They stood facing each other in that moment, the expression on Eileen’s face making it more than clear there were questions she wanted to ask… questions that mightn’t have easy, comfortable answers. She’d have asked them had Thorne given any signal at all in recognition of that but he instead remained silent, the grin never leaving his face as if his own subconscious were daring her to imply there was anything wrong.
Then the moment had passed and she felt any resolve within her fading away to nothingness. She was hot, tired and hungry and was willing to allow Thorne the benefit of the doubt right th
en and assume that perhaps those factors were affecting her judgement.
“Let’s have that talk later, hon… all right…?” She added simply, her voice soft and sincere as she laid a gentle hand against his arm at the same time.
“Count on it…” He assured, and this time the much fainter smile he returned seemed all the more genuine for it.
She turned and walked away without another word, heading for the mess tents at a solid pace. Thorne watched her until she disappeared from view among the tents, still motionless as he stood with hands on hips and an almost sorrowful expression forming across his features.
“Fuck me…” he breathed finally, the profanity barely audible over the sound of the soft breeze whispering past from the south-east as he shook his head in displeasure over his own actions. “Nice work, dickhead… nice work…!”
Staring down at the ground for a moment, he kicked absent-mindedly at the loose stones beneath his feet as if by miracle the answer to all his own questions and uncertainties might somehow lie hidden beneath that coarse, barren earth. Another long, silent pause followed with him locked deep in thought before he finally released a single, wordless sigh of frustration.
He knew he was procrastinating. He knew he was intentionally avoiding issues that he would have to deal with sooner or later. He also knew that putting them off would eventually only make things worse. Yet for all that, Thorne felt somehow powerless to act all the same and he found himself at a complete loss as to how to proceed: a situation that was completely out of character.
“Bugger this,” he muttered softly to himself, “…I need a bloody drink…!” Turning toward the line of parked trucks, he quickly found the one he needed and marched quickly up to the rear of the third in line. Placing a foot atop the rear tyre for support, he hoisted himself up to the rear cargo bed and lifted the canvas side curtain over his head. He soon found what he was looking for – a large, portable refrigeration unit mounted directly behind the cabin that consumed a substantial amount of the truck’s cargo bed.
Normally powered by the truck’s 24V internal electrical system when on the move, the unit was instead now connected to the base’s main generators via a long extension cord that ran up over the barrier on the opposite side of the cargo bed and stretched away across the hard ground, staked and marked clearly with small red flags in the hope of avoiding entanglement with or damage from passing foot and vehicle traffic.
It took just a few seconds for him to find what he was looking for: a six pack of 13-ounce cans of Victoria Bitter that was one of several stored within. Secured by loops of heavy-gauge plastic at the upper rim of each that kept them clustered together, he dragged the green-painted cans out in a group and closed the lid properly before extricating himself from the truck’s canvas side curtain and dropping back down to the ground. He deftly removed one can from the pack and hugged the other five under one arm as he cracked open the pull-tab. He raised the can to his lips and took a long drag at it.
“Aaaaah… nectar of the gods…!” Thorne breathed happily, releasing a satisfied sigh and taking a moment to savour the sensation as the cool beer soothed his mood substantially.
Deciding he needed somewhere a little more private where he could collect his thoughts, Thorne turned away from the tents and began to walk slowly into the darkness, heading toward the twin silhouettes of the parked Sentinel tanks in the distance. With one finger of his right hand awkwardly hooked through the now-empty last ring of the six-pack’s plastic holder – the same one holding his opened beer – he managed carrying all of it in the same hand. With his left he maintained steady hold on the microphone of his radio, as if clinging to some slender hope that the call he was awaiting might drag him out of the funk of uncertainty he was experiencing.
Jake and Elwood had been withdrawn from the lines toward late afternoon, both brought back to the 2/28th CP at Agruda where it was deemed they’d be far safer during the night. Parked several dozen metres apart for the mutual protection of both, they were watched over by a rotating shift of crews for Ivan, the Tunguska mobile flak vehicle. It stood three hundred metres off to the south, passive and implacable as it waited for any sign of prey.
The large, concave search radar above its turret turned at a slow and continuous pace, seeking out any enemy aircraft foolhardy enough to venture within range of its cannon or missiles. A faint, green glow rose from its open turret hatches: the main diesel engine lay dormant however a small turbine-driven auxiliary power unit (APU) mounted beside the driver provided electricity for the operation of the vehicle’s systems and – more importantly – the built-in air conditioning unit.
Jimmy Davids sat alone atop the turret of XFV001 Jake, legs dangling over one of its slab-like sides as he stared thoughtfully off into the darkness beyond the dim general lighting around the command post area. The rest of his crew has set up a makeshift camp not far away, the small fire they’d lit intended more for illumination than as a source of heat on what was still a significantly warm evening. He could see the flicker of yellow flames and hear the faint sounds of conversation and laugher, but had decided for the moment at least to spend some time alone instead, not feeling any great desire for alcohol that evening or, truth be told, for the company of others in general.
Close to where his thigh rested, not far from the top of the turret side, a long, jagged scar of gleaming bare metal had been gouged out of the thick steel; evidence of the glancing blow the tank had been dealt in battle from the Semovente’s powerful 90mm gun. There’d been plenty of opportunity for the crew and Thorne’s test team to examine the point of impact and all had marvelled not only at the tank’s survival but also that it had done with no notable after effects.
It had been a glancing blow – Davids had to admit that – and that had no doubt ameliorated the damage that XFV001 might otherwise have suffered had it been a direct hit against the turret’s front face. Nevertheless, the fact remained that had they still been manning a Sherman Firefly, a similar ‘glancing’ blow of such force might have been powerful enough to significantly damage the tank and the crew inside, if not destroy it outright.
Yet that incredible AFV nicknamed Jake had survived seemingly unaffected and had also contributed hugely to repulsing the attack, half-hearted as it had obviously been. The four-inch rifled gun provided them with a weapon able to destroy any enemy tank they were likely to encounter – including the much-feared P-4 Panther, the frontal armour of which had attained almost legendary status due to being almost impervious to Allied anti-tank guns at anything less than suicidal ranges.
Jake’s main gun, which could take on enemy tanks at ranges far beyond anything else in the Allied arsenal, also appeared to be supremely accurate – something that was assisted greatly by the simple but technically brilliant idea to provide a ranging rifle that almost guaranteed a first-round kill every time. With a state-of-the-art diesel engine and superb armoured protection, Commonwealth forces around the world had finally found exactly the kind of armoured vehicle they’d been searching for since the war began: a main battle tank that was capable of taking on anything the enemy could throw at it.
Davids gave a thin, wry smile.
Now we just need enough of the buggers to make a difference!
It was at that point that Davids became aware of Thorne’s approach, the first indication being an angry, disembodied voice that was audible long before the man’s silhouette detached itself from the general darkness. With the positive outcome of the engagement that morning, Max Thorne should have been feeling very pleased… absolutely over the moon considering the fine performance of the two vehicles he’d brought with him to Egypt. In fact, the man sounded anything but as he stomped along the stony verge of the Cairo-Suez Road, talking loudly into that same microphone connected to the small radio clipped to his belt.
“…What the bloody hell are they talking about, Giles…?” He growled angrily, a deep frown exaggerating the creases in his forehead as he walked on. “He’s supposed
to be in England right now… why in God’s name would we evacuate him when his work there’s not finished…?”
“We’re getting all of this third-hand, sir,” the man named ‘Giles’ advised in a distinctly English accent through the speaker built into the mike Thorne held. “The latest reports we have are several days old but it appears he’s in the process of being extracted to Northern Ireland. One report openly mentions “Nightrider” as his method of egress.”
“Jesus Christ… Kelly’s involved in this as well?” That piece of information brought Thorne to a complete halt no more than fifty metres or so from Davids’ parked tank. “He’s not even working for the bloody Irish anymore… he’s one of ours! Fuck…!” He added the profanity under his breath, the lack of volume watering down none of the vehemence in his tone.
“Last contact indicated – and I quote – that ‘the mission is proceeding as ordered...’. That’s all we’ve been able to get out of Dublin at this time but they’ve assured me they’re chasing up their contacts in Belfast for more information.” There was a pause as if the man at the other end of the radio signal was already aware that his next words would be seen as bad news. “Sir, I’m also concerned that this may be linked to Kriegsmarine flash traffic one of our ELINT subs picked up over the last forty-eight hours regarding a firefight in the Irish Sea… early yesterday morning, their time…”
“Oh, fuck me…” Thorne snarled, a sudden sinking feeling churning in the pit of his stomach as he processed that news. “…Go on…”
“Not much more to tell than that sir, other than notification of pursuit of an unidentified, fast-moving surface vessel involving one of their E-boats and a recon aircraft. The flying boat is believed shot down during the engagement, however all reports ceased not long after and repeated calls to the E-boat went unanswered as far as we’re aware, suggesting it too may have been destroyed…”
“Why, Giles…? If that was Kelly’s boat involved, the real question is why they were taking them across the fucking Straits of Moyle in the first fucking place?” Strain was showing on Thorne’s face now.
Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2) Page 33