“Not gonna need any strength where I’m goin’, sir…” Morris answered knowingly, tears falling from his own eyes now as the reality of his situation finally sunk in. “We both know that.” He tried to smile, mostly failing. “It’s okay really, sir… I made my peace with The Lord a long time ago, and I reckon today’s as good as any to say ‘g’day’.” The smile disappeared in an instant as a series of racking coughs assaulted his body, blood spraying from his lips. “Wish I could see my family again though…” he added, crying openly now as he accepted his own fate. “Wish I could see ‘em just one more time…” He reached up with one hand suddenly, clutching at Thorne’s blood-soaked tunic as his body began to shake from cold and shock.
“You gotta tell ‘em…!” He continued with renewed intensity. “Tell ‘em I was thinkin’ of ‘em… tell ‘em I was at peace with it all…”
“I will… I will…” Thorne nodded through his own tears, meeting the man’s gaze without falter. “I swear to you, mate: they’ll never want for anything ever again…”
But Morris was already gone, his head falling back as all life disappeared from his sightless eyes. The hand grasping at Thorne’s lapel slipped away as he felt the body sag in death, and the tears began to stream down his cheeks in torrents.
“Come on, mate…” Lloyd ventured softly, stepping forward and crouching down beside Thorne as he reached out and took the weight of the sergeant’s body as gently as he was able. “We’ll look after him, now… Let Eileen have a look at you and we’ll make sure he’s right…”
There was a moment – no more than a second or two – where his eyes locked with Thorne’s and the pair shared a moment of understanding known only through friendships formed in battle. With a final, silent nod, Max Thorne released his grasp on Morris and allowed Lloyd to draw back. Without any need for word of command, two of Lloyd’s squad stepped forward and lifted Morris away with careful reverence, carrying the man’s body back toward the rear of their truck as Evan took a few steps back to allow Eileen access with the first aid kit.
“Oh, Jesus, Max…” she breathed softly, tears in her own eyes as she broke open the kit and pulled out the first shell dressing she could find. “Oh dear lord, Jesus Christ…!”
He made no move to resist or help as she tilted his head to one side and examined the jagged wound in his neck that continued to run with crimson. It was unlikely Schreiner could actually have bitten deep enough to fatally sever Thorne’s carotid artery at the point where he’d sunk in his teeth, but the wound had bled profusely all the same and it would soak through two dressings before Eileen was finally able to staunch the flow.
Throughout the entire process, Thorne uttered not a word and made no movement of his own volition, save for those in reaction to Donelson as she pushed his head and body this way and that while bandaging him up. The whole time he continued to stare blankly into the middle distance, eyes unfocussed, as tears continued to stream down his cheeks.
Died for you… died for us…! It was a rare moment in that the voice in his mind was heard without its usual, underlying tone of flippant sarcasm. It was also, he noticed for only the second time, a voice that had begun to sound much more like his own, losing a substantial amount of the false femininity to which he’d become accustomed. Never forget…! Never forget your oath…! He’s coming for her… never forget your oath…!
Although the silent message chilled him to the bone, he nevertheless nodded faintly, the movement so infinitesimal as to be missed by everyone around him. It hadn’t been intended for anyone else in any case. Yes, he’d sworn an oath… an oath to a dying man who’d sacrificed his life so that Thorne might live on. It was a promise he had no intention of forgetting.
Schreiner staggered on through the swirling sands, expecting with every step to hear the roar of diesels and clank of caterpillar tracks behind him; with every passing moment he feared the terrible blow of machine gun bullets in his back. Nevertheless he limped on and wouldn’t stop until the combined effects of exhaustion and blood loss forced him to rest in the lee of a small gully, some two thousand metres further west. There he would use a knife to cut away the trouser legs of his tank suit and fashion from them a makeshift shell dressing to press against the oozing wound in his left side. Only then would he finally allow himself a drink from the small canteen at his belt, using some of the warm, metallic-tasting liquid to wash the remaining blood from his mouth and face.
By that time it was already far too late. The injuries he’d suffered from being thrown from his vehicle and from everything he’d experienced since had left him with numerous cuts and abrasions all over the exposed parts of his body, including his hands and face and also some within his mouth where jarring impacts had caused him to accidentally bite his own tongue and cheek. Some of those wounds had still not closed properly as he’d bitten Thorne, and as the man’s blood had filled his mouth, so too had all the tiny bacteria and viruses the Australian had been carrying within his body.
One of those microscopic foreign bodies – a particularly fragile lentivirus that had remained completely dormant during the last two years since its arrival in the 1940s – was now presented with its first opportunity to spread and replicate. An infectious agent considered too basic even to be classified an organism in its own right (as were all viruses), it had survived the trip through time well within its host’s body and had mutated in slight but quite significant ways as a result of the experience.
Although still fragile, it was now somewhat hardier than it had previously been and was able to survive long enough in the open for its host’s spilt blood to mingle and infuse with the blood seeping from two wounds within Schreiner’s mouth. It instantly set to work with incredible efficiency, entering the microphages and lymphocytes of its new host’s blood stream and beginning its cycle of replication.
Weak, dehydrated and severely anaemic through blood loss, Arno Schreiner would eventually be found by advancing Wehrmacht units two hours later and be passed back to the nearest mobile field hospital for treatment. There he’d receive urgent supplies of fresh blood to replenish that which he’d lost. Also tired and worn out after several long hours tending to wounded soldiers, the doctor treating him would make the seemingly minor mistake of neglecting to sterilise one of the needles used and would subsequently pass the same virus on to the next patient brought before him.
For all that, it was SS-Hauptsturmführer Arno Schreiner who’d eventually become known as ‘Patient Zero’, although it would all be far too late by the time the truth finally came to light. Laying on a gurney in some recovery tent hours later, he’d remember his retreat from the fight with Thorne and recall how he’d never imagined he’d actually survive the encounter. It would be many years before he’d come to realise that he’d been completely and utterly correct.
18. Decisions
Abandoned Allied Defensive Lines near Agruda
27km west of Suez, Egypt
October 3, 1942
Saturday
“What do you mean, they will not fly…?” The question was screamed with a volume and intensity that belied the Reichsmarschall’s advanced years and gave a clear indication that the man was a long way from being ready to retire. “We stand here at the cusp of handing the Verdammt English their greatest and most comprehensive defeat since the fall of Britain itself, and you’re telling me that my fucking Luftwaffe will not take off?” It was as if the concept was completely alien to Reuters as he stood by the rear ramp of their Marder command vehicle, parked astride a set of trench lines that only an hour before had been held by the Australian 2/28th. “Truly, I must have Herr Speer explain to me what use was made of the millions of Reichsmarks we’ve pissed away in all these bloody planes and gadgets we’ve handed these cowardly bastards over the last seven years!”
“They do not lack the will to fight, Mein Herr…” Nehring placated, struggling to hold his own temper in reaction to so unwarranted a slight against fine fighting men, “…however they
simply cannot fly in conditions such as these…” He threw out an arm and turned to take in the dust storms still howling about them while Schiller, still angry and somewhat disgruntled over his own earlier rebuke, stood a metre or two away, leaning against the hull of the Marder and feigning disinterest with arms crossed.
“Our forecasts suggest that we may see the storm lift within the next hour but until that happens we have no choice but to ground our aircraft. The sand plays havoc with the engines – particularly those of the jets – and even those fortunate enough to take off safely will have no chance of identifying targets on the ground under all of this, nor would they be able to land safely afterward either. We’ve lost dozens of aircraft already that have crashed upon return to base in conditions of almost zero visibility, and hundreds more – those that still have enough fuel – have been forced to reroute to alternate landing strips further north that still have enough visibility to bring them in.” The general knew he was skating on extremely thin ice by adopting such an aggressive, lecturing tone, but was now far too committed to the defence of his men to hold back. “Mein Herr, our Luftwaffe is the finest in the world as you well know, but it is no use to us at all if it is reduced to piles of charred wreckage because we force good men to undertake suicidal missions that have absolutely no possibility of success.
Reuters stared at Nehring as if the man had lost control of his senses, holding the wild, disbelieving glare for an excruciatingly long time as ground troops moved about them in all directions, continuing to check the shattered defences for Allied stragglers of booby-traps.
“He’s right, Kurt,” Schiller ventured finally, no longer in good conscience able to remain aloof from the angry conversation. “You know Walther is right.”
Mama…! Mama, I want Papa… I want Papa…!
“And so we lose the advantage of total air superiority,” Reuters conceded finally, releasing a sigh of frustration as he clenched his fists and fought to ignore the faint voice threatening to rise in the back of his mind. “Already, the advance has slowed here at Suez and has stalled altogether at Ismailia!” He released a guttural growl over the futility of the situation and turned away, angrily slamming his still-clenched fist against the hull of the IFV. “Dietrich has advance units of the Leibstandarte pushing east down the Genaiva Road right now: if they could’ve held them there for just thirty more minutes it would’ve been enough. Now Hindsight’s going to slip away from us again and there’s nothing we can do about it!”
“And that’s the real crux of it, isn’t it, Kurt?” Schiller observed gently, unable to maintain his own indignance any longer as an expression of true vulnerability flashed momentarily across his commander’s face. SG2 had been poised to completely decimate what was left of Max Thorne’s convoy, only to be forced to withdraw because of the deteriorating weather that now prevented any further air missions being launched. The arrival of the enemy jet with its 21st Century fire control systems – systems completely unaffected by those very same poor weather conditions – had been the final nail in the coffin so far as the capture or termination of Max Thorne was concerned.
Schiller didn’t for a moment blame the commander of 1FSK for ordering withdrawal: there was no other possible choice he could’ve made in the face of opposition from two seemingly invulnerable tanks backed up by unassailable air power. There wasn’t a commander in the world – save perhaps for those fanatical crazies of the SS, he conceded with a faint, wry smile – who’d condemn that young fellow, Witzig for getting his remaining men out of there. Yet even he had to admit that it was a bitter pill for either of them to swallow all the same, and even he was forced to concede that perhaps he could cut his CO a little slack as a result.
“We know they’re heading for Kibrit,” he continued, moving to stand beside Reuters and laying a reassuring hand on the man’s shoulder, “and we have the Leibstandarte pushing on, as you’ve already said. It’s only a matter of time now before we have them anyway.” He gave a thin, predatory smile. “Where else can they go, after all…?”
“Where else…?” Reuters asked dismally, locking eyes with his 2IC. “Right back to Australia on that bloody great Galaxy that’s no doubt on its way as we speak… that’s where!”
“Even if they manage to land without ending up as a fireball on the runway,” Schiller conceded the point grudgingly, “how can they take off again while this bloody sandstorm still rages? We know how much the performance of jet engines suffer trying to suck all this shit in: will they even have enough power to take off again with two tanks and the rest of Hindsight loaded aboard?”
“And in the unlikely event that our meteorological ‘eierköpfe’ are actually correct and this storm does lift?”
“Then we can have a geschwader of jet fighters over Kibrit in ten minutes,” he replied without hesitation. “Assuming, of course, that they haven’t already been destroyed by ground forces by then anyway – we should have advance units of mobile artillery within range within half an hour at the most, and I doubt it’ll take more than one near miss from a one-oh-five to put a Galaxy out of action.”
Try as he might, the Reichsmarschall couldn’t fault the other man’s reasoning and a slight sensation of optimism once more began to seep into the forefront of his consciousness as a result. A minor setback, it was true, but perhaps not so bad after all. In that moment it didn’t matter to Kurt Reuters whether the entire front collapsed and failed – unlikely as that actually was – so long as Max Thorne’s body lay at his feet by day’s end.
“Get us moving!” He snapped suddenly, directing the command toward Nehring with a renewed vigour and intensity in his tone. “I want to be with the Leibstandarte when it reaches Kibrit!” The two generals exchanged meaningful glances over that thought.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea, Mein Herr?” Nehring asked hesitantly in reply. “The enemy may be in retreat but they are not broken yet...” adding honestly “... and it would still be dangerous that close to the front: Deutschland could not afford your loss.”
“Nonsense,” Reuters shot back with the enthusiasm of a staff officer long enough away from combat to recall the experience as excitement rather than reality. “I want to be there when they take Thorne captive: I want to be there when they bring out his dead body!”
From over the Reichsmarschall’s shoulder, Schiller shook his head faintly, suggesting it best that Nehring accede to the man’s wishes. He’d heard that tone enough times over several decades to know there would be no changing his commanding officer’s mind.
Max Thorne’s body was at that particular moment propped up in the rear tray of one of the GMC trucks, Eileen still fussing over the blood-stained bandages covering the bite on his neck, the shrapnel wounds in his side and the gash along his arm as the two Sentinels and the remaining survivors of the Hindsight convoy continued their interrupted journey north-east toward the Suez Canal and RAF Kibrit. Within minutes of Thorne’s rescue they’d been joined by retreating units of the 2/28th and 3RTR, the defensive lines at Agruda having lasted no more than fifteen minutes under full assault from the advancing Wehrmacht.
By the time they reached the Hurgada-Al Ismaileya Road, just eight kilometres from Kibrit, the motorised column had grown to a force of at least two dozen assorted trucks and armoured vehicles carrying more than a hundred men between them. The entire time, despite numerous direct orders to land and get some rest, Alec Trumbull continued to circle high above in the F-35E, keeping a tired but watchful eye on the proceedings below and determined not to allow the approach of any other threat.
The Hurgada-Al Ismaileya Road was an experience in itself, and the entire troop was forced to halt for several tense, drawn-out minutes as they awaited a chance to push across a chaotic stream of refugees heading south from Ismailia by motor vehicle, camel and on foot. Precious few MPs and other armed British troops stood guard and tried to make some sense of the insanity before them as rich and poor, Briton and Egyptian alike blundered blindly along through
the howling storm, their backs burdened with as much of their worldly possessions as they could manage.
That Suez or anywhere else to the south mightn’t offer any more safety than the fighting they were leaving behind to the north didn’t seem to make any difference. Whatever uncertainty lay ahead, they all understood well enough that almost certain death lay behind and most were willing to take their chances on seeking shelter elsewhere. If nothing else, there was at least the possibility they could perhaps make a crossing of the canal at one of the numerous ferry points nearer to Suez, and that alone might provide at least some respite from advancing German forces.
There were traffic snarls and arguments on all sides as they waited desperately for some opportunity to cross, and when their time finally came and they began to move once more, MPs were forced to fire their weapons into the air several times to prevent them being overrun by the swelling ranks of angry, terrified refugees on their northern flank. A significant number of fleeing civilians had also turned east, heading roughly in the same direction as the Hindsight convoy, their silent, downcast, angry faces an all-too-clear indicator of the chaos and mayhem they’d left behind.
Their presence and the swell of discontent was the first thing Thorne had shown the slightest interest in since they’d picked him up. The rest of his time since rescue had been spent staring listlessly at the opposite side of the truck bed, responding with sullen, monosyllabic replies to any question and venturing no opinion or original thought of his own. It was a state Eileen had never seen him in before and it concerned her greatly.
“Where d’you think they’re going?” Eileen asked almost rhetorically as the truck they were riding made it past the surging tide of displaced humanity and powered away safely to the north-east once more. She’d noted his momentarily heightened level of interest as he’d lifted his head slightly to take in what was happening outside the cargo bed of the GMC. “Where do they think they’re going?”
Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2) Page 82