“…In case you hadn’t noticed, there is actually a bloody war on… one that has swept through the entirety of Europe and most of North Africa and – probably a lot sooner than any of us would like – will almost certainly soon spread to what’s left of this shattered bloody Empire throughout Asia and the Pacific.” A small crowd had begun to gather now at a distance, drawn by the raised voices, and they were watching now with great interest and concern, Donelson, Lloyd and the tank crews all part of the growing group.
“Your presence here is a privilege extended to you at the courtesy of British and Australian forces, as is the not-insubstantial support your group has asked for and received since your arrival. While you may consider yourself above authority, we are not and we have been given quite clear instructions about how this is to proceed from here on in.” He took another deep breath as Thorne stood stock still before him, their eyes unflinchingly locked with neither man likely to give first and look away.
“There’s a war on… I did mention that, didn’t I?” He repeated, knowing the answer full well. “Being a wealthy man and the managing director of a huge company might allow you some licence to act however you see fit in The United States, but it holds no sway with myself or my command here in this theatre of war…! You’ve no doubt heard of the terms ‘Emergency Powers’ and ‘Military Law’? Rumour has it – among many others – that you’re the richest man on Earth… that may well be the case but it will not stop me from having you thrown into the nearest bloody stockade in irons if you don’t decide to start following bloody orders and doing what you’re told…!” That last sentence was hissed at little more than a whisper but its intensity cut through him all the same.
“The moment we’re finished here, you will immediately collect your equipment and begin packing for departure. I will expect to see all of you ready to leave at oh-six-hundred tomorrow. Space has already been reserved on a transport leaving Suez that morning and they will be awaiting your arrival.” He began to turn, as if the discussion were over in his mind, then halted momentarily and turned back toward Thorne. “At the personal request of Field Marshal Blamey, these two men here have been assigned as your ‘escort’ for the rest of your short time with us here. They’re well-briefed as to what to do should you deviate from the orders I’ve just given, and do not doubt for a moment that they will have you taken into custody if those instructions are deviated from in any way. Is that clear, Mister Thorne…?”
Thorne stood silent before him, body shaking faintly and staring now, unfocussed, at a point just vaguely to one side of the general’s left ear as he fought to control his own temper. That the voice within his own mind continued to goad him incessantly the entire time was of no help whatsoever.
“You may not care about what happens to you,” Monty added softly, quite-rightly deducing the knife-edge of decision that the man before him was teetering on, “but I would hope the same thing couldn’t be said about your feelings those under your command – men and women whose loyalty to you may well see their careers irrevocably damaged if you choose to continue with such an ill-advised course of action. Most of them actually have some pride in the wearing of their commissions, but that would be expected of people who’d earned them.”
There was another long, charged silence as Montgomery stood face to face with the irreverent Australian officer he’d actually begun to develop some grudging respect for prior to his discussion with Blamey. As a commander however there was no way now he could allow the situation to continue until he made certain the other man backed down: anything less would mean a significant loss of face, something a high-ranking officer simply couldn’t afford.
Thorne recognised the very same thing also in that moment: that the stand-off had become far more than just an argument, now that a crowd had gathered to watch the proceedings. He’d been a real officer once, but that had been many years ago in his own personal history and even he would admit he’d never been exceptional at following orders… one of the reasons he’d never made a lifetime career out of the military. Monty needed to win this one… had to win this one… while Thorne, as much as he hated giving in on principle, ultimately still possessed the luxury of not caring, if he so chose.
You’re going to just let him get away with that? Let that stuffy old bastard talk to you like some raw bloody cadet straight out of the academy? For Christ’s Sake, go and borrow one of Donelson’s dresses and start getting about in that… you left your balls back in The States somewhere…
He very nearly lost it at that moment… very nearly screamed at the unwanted voice behind his own thoughts to ‘Shut the fuck up!’… but somehow – with strength of self-control well beyond his own understanding – Max Thorne held his tongue and rode out the waves of fury that rolled across him, one last, tiny piece of his rational mind finding barely enough voice to warn him that any such outburst, of actually spoken out loud, would completely destroy the situation and almost certainly land him in a stockade.
As Montgomery had quite rightly pointed out, there were also his subordinates to consider: people he cared about very much. They’d been as in the dark about the order to evacuate as anyone else, and as his rage began to turn inward toward self-loathing – as it so often did of late – he also began to feel something of the guilt and humiliation he was likely to experience once they discovered he’d been hiding those very same orders from them also.
In the end he lifted his head high and closed his eyes, taking a deep, sharply-drawn breath as he fought to swallow his own sizeable ego. When he returned his gaze to the face of the general before him, most of the anger had been successfully pushed down into some deep compartment of his own subconscious, where it would no doubt fester and grow but at the very least wouldn’t bother any of them for the rest of the night.
“All right, general… all right…” he breathed with soft resignation, drawing expressions of distinct relief from the two officers behind Monty. “I’ll accede to your wishes and have my team commence packing up. We’ll be ready to leave in the morning as ordered, you have my word.”
“A wise decision, Mister Thorne… a very wise decision,” Montgomery observed coldly, unwilling to give any ground even in the face of the man’s defeat. “Your word is good enough for me.”
“Once we’re packed, have you any objection to my crew having a few farewell drinks with the rest of the men here? They’ve grown quite close over the last month or so.”
“None at all,” the general responded after a moment’s thought, deciding there might be at least some scope for being magnanimous in victory. “I’ll instruct the Officer’s Mess back at Suez to ferry out a good selection for your enjoyment… be good for morale… Air Vice Marshal Thorne…” He snapped to attention in that moment, bringing his hand up to a salute that signalled the discussion was now officially over.
“General…” Thorne responded in kind, this time executing a picture-perfect, regulation display of coming to attention, although his lack of headgear precluded giving a salute in return.
Impressed by such a clear display of respect, Montgomery almost physically nodded his approval as he turned and marched off, the rest of his entourage – less the two guards he’d assigned as Thorne’s escort – in tow. Although it would’ve been painfully clear to anyone who knew the man well, Monty couldn’t possibly have guessed how much insult Thorne had consciously worked into such a precision piece of drill – something that was completely at odds with the casual and relaxed manner in which he normally acted when addressing those for whom he felt real respect.
Mitla Pass, 60km East of Suez
Sinai Peninsula, Egypt
October 2, 1942
Friday
The 1e Fernspäherkompanie (1st Long Range Scout Company) had originally been spawned of the Luftwaffe’s elite Fallschirmjäger airborne divisions. Following the great reorganisation of the Wehrmacht begun before (and completed after) the September 1940 invasion of Great Britain, 1FSK had fallen under the control
of the Kommando Spezialkräfte – the OKW’s newly-formed Special Forces Command, a unit created by Kurt Reuters and headed – at his personal request – by a innovative and very unconventional young standartenführer named Otto Skorzeny.
1FSK was a highly-mobile mechanised assault unit comprising thirty-five armoured vehicles and a total of 150 men, all of whom had experience and intensive training in land, air and amphibious operations. Its commander, Major Rudolf Witzig, was himself a seasoned veteran of the campaigns in Western Europe, having commanded airborne units in Belgium and also during the British Invasion. Since then, 1FSK had also fought in the Balkans prior to their posting in North Africa, where the innovative use of small, fast-moving reconnaissance vehicles had earned the unit a deserved reputation of success through intelligent, aggressive tactics.
Witzig had turned twenty-six just a few months before and had won a Ritterkreuz for his actions in taking the Belgian fort of Eben-Emael during the German advance into the Low Countries during May of 1940, something that was also recorded in the Wehrmachtbericht – the German Armed Forces’ equivalent of being ‘Mentioned-in-Dispatches’. Four months later he’d received the addition of Oakleaves to his Knight’s Cross for outstanding bravery and leadership during the invasion of Britain in September of that same year.
A man many women would’ve considered quite handsome, he was tall and fit without being overly broad or solid of frame. A strong jaw and chiselled features complimented sharp, intelligent eyes behind which lay a fine military intellect. In another reality that some called Realtime, he’d have gone on to serve after the war as an officer in the Bundeswehr until well into the 1970s, holding the rank of oberst upon retirement.
He was already a major in the Wehrmacht of Kurt Reuters’ creation and had commanded 1FSK now for almost a year. As he stared out across the ‘alien’ landscape of the Sinai desert beneath the cold light of a half-moon in the clear sky above, he took a moment to think back over some of his memories of action in England and Western Europe. He missed the excitement of being a fallschirmjäger – airborne operations were now quite rare, if not altogether a thing of the past – however there were also distinct benefits that came with his new command.
The 1e Fernspäherkompanie was modelled on the British concept of the Long Range Desert Group; a unit that in Realtime had inflicted damaged upon the Afrika Korps greatly out of proportion to its actual numbers in combat. The vehicles 1FSK used had been specifically designed for fast-moving hit-and-run tactics, and with speed in mind were all variants of the same compact, 6 x 6 wheeled platform that had been designated the P-21G by the Wehrmacht Waffenamt (Army Weapons Agency).
All thirty-five vehicles were based on that same basic design, but all were very different in their capabilities and intended to operate together as a combined unit. Each variant could be identified by its ‘U-number’, the letter normally denoting an Umrüst-Bausätze or ‘factory modification’. In the case of the P-21G however, each U-number identified a specific model rather than a minor variant in an attempt to conceal its true nature: in OKW official records it was listed simply as a ‘utility vehicle rather than one intended for specialised, long-range reconnaissance.
Witzig’s command car, for example, was classified as a P-12G/U1 and went by the nickname of ‘Thor’. The low weight and compact size meant that it was only lightly armoured – barely proof against anything more than heavy machine guns – yet it also meant that the vehicles were fast and air-transportable, both very important capabilities for a mobile reconnaissance unit.
Weighing in at about 8,500kg and powered by a 6-cylinder diesel engine, it carried a small, two-man turret mounting the same 23mm automatic cannon fitted to the Wehrmacht’s standard P-7 Puma armoured car. Externally however, the turret also carried on its left side an 88mm auto-loading recoilless rifle slaved to the vehicle’s internal sighting systems. The vehicle’s heavy external gun was intended to provide heavier direct-fire support; either against enemy tanks or hardened structures such as bunkers and pill boxes as required.
There were fifteen Thors in total – three in the command troop (including his) and six each in 1e Truppe and 2e Truppe. The remaining twenty vehicles were a collection of four light AA vehicles (P-21G/U5 ‘Loki’), four self-propelled mortar carriers (-/U6 ‘Odin’) and twelve armoured personnel carriers (-/U8 ‘Valkyrie’), all evenly split between both truppen, although one of the Loki mobile flak would often detach and remain with the command troop to provide protection as needed.
The unit’s vehicles were clustered loosely across the rough, unsealed track that ran out of the mountains from the west and turned east-south-east toward the township of Nekhelo, sixty kilometres or so away. Not far behind them, the road to Al Hasana ran away to the north-east through the rolling hills of a stony wasteland. That was the way they’d come, having made an amphibious landing east of the coastal city of Arish the evening before. From there, six Typ-2 assault hovercraft had taken them as far south as Hasna before they’d been forced to disembark. There the mostly open landscape of dunes and flat desert had transformed into an environment of uneven, irregular hills threaded by narrow, winding tracks that made further travel by air cushion vehicle difficult, if not completely impossible.
And now the forbidding mountain ranges of the central Sinai rose before them, little more than an impenetrable darkness below the brilliant star field of the desert sky at night. If there’d been any argument earlier about the inability of a hovercraft to carry them any further, there was certainly none now. They stood at the eastern entrance to Mitla Pass, 32km of winding, unforgiving narrow track that would – eventually – bring them out on the other side just fifty kilometres east of Suez itself. They’d not expected to encounter any opposition that side of the ranges, not had they in their journey south. With Nazi-backed uprisings developing in both Palestine and Iraq, all British forces to the east – what little that actually remained – were otherwise engaged and had no resources they could spare to patrol the generally featureless and inhospitable wastes of the Sinai Peninsula.
Another of the Thor reconnaissance vehicles rumbled slowly up accompanied by a Valkyrie APC, both coming to a halt a few metres away and roughly level with Witzig’s position. Although built from the same 6 x 6 platform, the APC was of an overtly bulkier shape than the Thor, although it was conversely somewhat lighter. A small turret was mounted forward armed with just two machine guns (one heavy and one medium) and was capable of carrying within its built-up rear hull up to six fully-armed troopers over and above its three crewmen. Eight of the twelve APCs attached to the unit each carried a six-man troop for infantry support (the remaining four were designated as supply vehicles).
The second Thor’s turret hatch rose to reveal the indistinct but unmistakeable shape of Hauptsturmführer Arno Schreiner, commander of 1FSK’s 1e Truppe. The Kommando Spezialkräfte was a ‘combined services’ unit that lay directly under the command of the Reichsmarschall’s office, and as such drew members from all arms of the Wehrmacht: recruits were fielded from the army, Luftwaffe, Kriegsmarine and Waffen-SS with merit and capabilities being the only factor determining acceptance.
“Any word, mein herr…?”
“None yet, Arno,” Witzig replied, shaking his head slowly although it was unlikely the action would be clear in the pale moonlight. There was no need to speak with any great volume; soft voices carried well enough but somehow took on a vaguely eerie quality beneath that cold, sparkling mantle of stars.
“It’s been six hours…! Surely they’ve had time to reach the other side by now?”
“I don’t like all this lurking about much either,” Witzig agreed grudgingly, “but even so, I’ll take it over being caught out on this side of the pass. We must make it into the clear on the other side without being detected to have any chance of success.”
“Of course, mein herr,” Schreiner agreed instantly, also recognising the need for stealth but feeling no happier about it. “I just hope all this hanging abo
ut, sitting on our hands hasn’t taken too much out of our effectiveness when the time comes…”
“You know as well as I that it won’t,” Witzig dismissed the thought immediately. “Those boys are so eager to take on the Tommis I think there’d be a mutiny if we tried to stop them.”
He received a chuckle from the direction of the APC, the only visual indication a faint, momentary flash of white teeth that broke the otherwise featureless image of the SS captain’s silhouette.
Blond-haired, blue-eyed and well over 180cm tall, Schreiner was a large and quite powerful man from Breslau in Lower Silesia. At the age of twenty-eight, he’d participated in the demonstration sport of ‘military patrol’ (the precursor to post-war Realtime biathlon) at the 1936 Winter Olympics at Garmisch-Partenkirchen as a member of the 5th-placed German team. He maintained a level of fitness that was the envy of the entire unit, something that was complemented by an equally well-developed intellect.
Schreiner had completed a degree at Technische Hochschule (University of Technology) Breslau and had spent much time studying outside any formal education on subjects such as modern history and military tactics. He’d proven to be a fine and effective commander who worked his men hard and demanded nothing less than one hundred per cent from those under his command – he expected no less of himself, after all. He also readily recognised exploits of bravery of uncommon valour and was not averse to recommending decorations for those he deemed deserving of recognition.
That being said, Witzig couldn’t have said honestly that he was actually happy to have the man as a member of his unit. For all his undeniable physical and mental capabilities, Arno Schreiner was ‘old school’ Waffen-SS and as fanatical a Nazi as one was likely to encounter. His pre-war sporting prowess and NSDAP connections, although they accorded no privileges within the unit itself, were significant nonetheless and it was rumoured that the progression of his career had been noted with growing interest in ‘certain circles’ that supposedly included Reinhard Heydrich and Reichsführer-SS Heinrich Himmler.
Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2) Page 54