“Bought it just before the storm hit I’m afraid, sir,” Hacking ventured in return, his own mood darkening over that information. “The whole bloody headquarters bunker took a direct hit from Jerry two-thousand-pounder, pardon my French, sir...” He gave a resigned shrug that spoke volumes as he added: “I guess I’m it now, sir, which is mostly why I’m so glad to see you here safe and sound.”
“It’s been a tough morning for everyone, hasn’t it, squadron leader?” Thorne gave a thin, mirthless smile, relenting somewhat and nodding in recognition as his respect for the young man rose dramatically in that moment. Without warning he strode off toward the runway, a short, sharp jerk of the head indicating the man should follow.
“What’s the state of the runway at the moment?” He demanded as they walked on, a small cluster of Hindsight members – Eileen included – hastening to keep up.
“Rather good, surprisingly, sir,” Hacking replied quickly with a wan smile. “As luck would have it, Jerry’s been finding excellent accuracy against our buildings and emplacements but for some reason’s had a somewhat harder time getting a decent hit on a mile-and-a-half of bloody runway.” The dark irony in his tone was easy to pick out as the young man considered the recent fate of his CO and most of the base’s HQ staff.
“Well, we’re gonna have to put that luck to good use, squadron leader,” Thorne observed with forced optimism, one hand reaching for the microphone of a replacement belt radio Eileen had provided him during the journey in.
“Phoenix Leader to Phoenix-Three...” he began, speaking quickly as, against all odds, that characteristic half-grin threatened to break out across his features once more. “Phoenix Leader to Phoenix-Three... you readin’ me, Weems?”
“Loud and clear, sir, loud… and… clear…” Pilot Harvey Weems replied immediately, his broad, mid-western accent also loud and clear through the speaker/mike.
“Please switch to Alternate-Five, Phoenix-Three... now... now... now...”
Thorne contorted his body almost theatrically as he reached down and adjusted the small channel control at the top of the belt-mounted radio unit, changing it to a preselected frequency that corresponded with the codeword given.
That was probably something you should’ve started doing a long time ago... The voice echoed faintly in his head, and his expression became quite grim as he fought to ignore it, unwilling to openly concede a huge error in judgement that he knew full well was his and his alone. Excuse the pun, but hindsight can be a real bitch sometimes, can’t it?
His teeth were clenched over a barely-withheld profanity as Thorne raised the mike to his lips once more, well aware that they might only have a few moments before the enemy managed to pick up their new frequency.
“Whaddya got for me, Harvey?” He demanded immediately, coming to a halt as he spoke and making a great show of staring up into a sky that, although appearing somewhat clearer now than it had been earlier, was nevertheless still filled with whirling sand and howling, gritty wind. “Visibility down here’s still for shit at the moment.”
“Well Max, we’re in a holding pattern over Bir-el Hassana right now, and it’s wonderful and clear up here.” The C-5M and KC-10A were at that moment circling high above the North Sinai, roughly 130km east of Kibrit. “Hard to see exactly what’s going on below us from thirty thousand feet up, but if I had to give my opinion, I’d say it looks like this sandstorm is clearing up a little where we are.”
Thorne threw a sharp, questioning glance at Hacking, who simply nodded in agreement over the remarks.
“Base meteorological officer, sir,” he replied instantly with a vaguely sheepish grin, “and he’s probably correct: our own weather reports suggested a wind change from the east that should clear this storm within the next thirty to sixty minutes... perhaps sooner if they’re already seeing some improvement over Bir-el Hassana.”
“You think its clear enough to get that big bastard down in one piece, Harvey?”
“That’d be a real hard call, sir,” Weems answered honestly, no small amount of concern in his voice over that idea. “Eight thousand feet of runway might seem like a lot from the ground but it looks an awful lot smaller from up here, and I need at least half that to land safely. We managed to get a good enough bearing over Nekhel to recalibrate the INS but without GPS, that alone just ain’t accurate enough for me to come in blind... I don’t think you want me playin’ Russian Roulette with a two hundred ton airplane, sir…”
“I hear ya, Harvey… I hear ya…” Thorne replied, releasing the transmit key before adding “…Fuck…!” under his breath. He knew that every single word the pilot had said was one hundred percent correct, yet it made him feel not one whit better about the situation. “What’s your fuel status, Phoenix-Three?”
“Fuel status is just fine, sir: we tanked over the Arabian Sea so we’re good to go. Phoenix-Two has enough remaining for us to tank again on the return leg.”
“Understood, Harvey – understood. That’s all for now: switch to Alternate-Two for your next transmission... over and out...”
“How’re your defences here, Squadron Leader?” Thorne snapped sharply the moment he’d hung the radio mike back at his belt and changed frequency once again.
“One augmented company of RAF Auxiliary, a detachment of engineers, one anti-tank battery and a handful of twenty-five pounders, sir,” Hacking answered quickly, the dismay clear in his tone, “and precious few it is to cover three miles of perimeter. The RAE’s managed to lay a few mines out past the tank traps and barbed wire, but that won’t hold ‘em long.”
“Won’t stop their arty shelling everything to shit either,” Thorne nodded with a grimace, recognising they were clearly on the same page and also acknowledging that meteorologist notwithstanding, the fellow certainly seemed to know what he was about. He sighed loudly, staring up at the murk-filled sky for a moment through the lenses of his sand-spattered goggles. “With the lack of any suitable ranking officer, I guess that also places me in charge for the moment,” he conceded with more than a little displeasure of his own while Hacking showed the good grace not to display his own huge sense of relief. He paused for another moment, thinking deeply as he gazed off into the middle distance with unfocussed eyes.
“First things first, Hacking,” he decided finally, his jaw hardening with firm decision. “I need you to check the entire defence line and make sure we have the men spread out as evenly as possible. Also, we need to make sure that whatever anti-tank weapons we have are also spread out evenly and ready for use. Unless I’m very much mistaken, the Krauts will have a shitload of armour heading our way at full throttle, and we’re gonna need everything we’ve got to even have a chance of giving them a bloody nose. ” He glanced up at the sky once more. “I’d be happier if we had air cover, but at least the bloody Luftwaffe won’t be able to fly either so fair’s fair on that score. This is probably gonna end up being a slugfest, and they are gonna win, but we might still be okay if we can hold them off long enough.” He paused for a moment as another though occurred to him. “Have we got any tank pits set up around the perimeter?”
“Yes sir: evenly spaced right along the lines – the engineers dug them in weeks ago for Shermans that never turned up.”
“Well we’ve got a few now to spare,” Thorne shot back with a reassuring grin. “Those engineers still got any bulldozers or earthmoving equipment?”
“Yes, sir…”
“Good! While you’re checking the lines, tell the buggers they need to dig out every third pit – every third one, understand? They need to be at least five feet deep, fifteen wide and thirty feet long, and they need to be that way yesterday! You got all of that?”
“Yes, sir…!” Hacking responded immediately, coming to attention and providing a sharp salute.”
“Good man…” Thorne replied with a dry smile, returning a perfunctory salute of his own in response before adding: “No offense, but take Lieutenant Lloyd from my unit with you: he’s a pro and he’ll
find things to fix that neither one of us would notice.”
Another moment and Hacking was gone, leaving Thorne momentarily alone to stare around the base at dozens of fighters and attack aircraft waiting impotently for the sandstorm to lift.
“What do you think?” Eileen asked as softly as was possible over the howl of the surrounding winds. “Do we stand any chance?”
“Would it be presumptuous of me to suggest ‘about as much as a fart in a windstorm’?” Thorne grinned back with a shrug before relenting and forcing a brave expression. “There’s always a chance, kid, and I’m not chucking it in yet. This storm’s gonna lift soon and when it does, it’ll come from east to west, which – I hope – will give us enough time to get the Galaxy down, loaded and off again before the Luftwaffe can launch anything against us. It’s a big ask, but we’re not done for just yet.”
“Unlike most of the poor buggers outside the fence…” Donelson observed darkly, feeling deeply for the fate of those who’d be left behind, should they manage to get airborne.
“Shit end of the stick all right,” Thorne agreed completely, no happier about it than she was. He paused for a moment, and then added: “Eileen, can you talk to Hacking or whomever else you need and get a headcount for me? I want to know how many we have on base right now and the breakdown of where they belong: whether they’re combat troops, flight crew, ground crew, rear echelon ‘pogos’ or – God forbid – bloody civilians. We need to know exactly who we have and who we can count on to make a stand if it comes to that. I’m gonna find their current CP and check what the latest intel reports are saying – meet me there in fifteen minutes?”
“I’ll do my best,” she replied with a nod, knowing the man well enough to trust him without knowing why he needed the information. With a reassuring pat on his shoulder, she turned a headed off at a quick pace as Thorne turned and stared off in the direction they’d first come since entering the base, the set of his jaw firming even more as his teeth clenched and he thought deeply about the desperate crowds they’d passed outside the gates on their way through. He made a move to take the radio microphone from his belt once more then decided against it and instead broke into a slow, limping jog back toward the Hindsight convoy, ignoring the numerous aches and pains that rose from his injured body in protest over the unexpected exertion.
He reached the group a few minutes later, seeking out the pair of parked Sentinel tanks and clambering up the glacis plate of Jake as Jimmy Davids looked on with interest from his position standing half out of the commander’s hatch.
“Mister Thorne’s come for a visit,” he informed his crew over the intercom, noting with some interest the expression on the man’s face as he approached, “and it looks like he’s got something serious to discuss.”
“I need your opinion on something, Jimmy,” Thorne said immediately, nodding in agreement with the tank commander’s observation as he climbed up on to the turret, “and I think we’d best ask the boys about it too.”
“That bad, boyo…?” Davids half grinned, although inwardly his stomach lurched with sudden fear all the same. “All right, me lads; let’s be gettin’ you all out here: the air vice marshal’s got somethin’ he wants to talk about.” As he spoke those words over the tank’s intercom, the questioning stare he gave Thorne spoke volumes regarding his concern.
“I’m sorry, Jimmy… you’re not gonna like what I have to say… I don’t like what I have to say…”
…and Captain James Davids of 3RTR quickly discovered that the man was being completely honest.
Hurgada-Al Ismaileya Road
7km SW of RAF Station Kibrit
Visibility had opened out to almost a thousand metres by the time Wittman’s lead elements came within sight of the Hurgada-Al Ismaileya Road. Even from that distance, the stream of human desperation heading south away from Ismailia was clearly visible through his Hensoldt binoculars as the young commander called a momentary halt atop a low rise. He took a few moments to survey the general area as two troops of P-3E medium tanks and Marder infantry fighting vehicles fanned out to either side, preparing for assault.
What was also painfully clear was that the huge majority of the continuing stream of evacuees comprised civilian men, women and children, and any advance in that direction was likely to result in a great loss of life… something the man was inclined to avoid if at all possible. Wittman immediately radioed back to command for instructions.
“Panther Leader to command… Panther Leader to command… current position approximately one thousand metres west of Waypoint Two and have the road under observation. High levels of civilian traffic visible heading south in disarray: impossible to continue advance without danger of significant civilian casualties… please advise… Panther Leader out…”
“Command to Panther Leader...” The reply came back within moments, the harsh sound of Dietrich’s voice easily recognisable. “Orders are to proceed as planned. Mission must continue at all costs… all other considerations are secondary…please acknowledge compliance… over…”
“Mein herr, there are refugees moving across our line of advance as far as the eye can see in both directions. There appears to be only a light military presence at this point, but any attempt to move forward may force us to engage or overrun civilians.” Wittman paused for a moment, recognising that he was now skating on political ice that was incredibly thin. “Please reconfirm previous order, command…” Although he suspected the answer would be a foregone conclusion, he nevertheless felt compelled by his own conscience to ask the question. The response he received a moment later caught him completely by surprise.
“Sturmbannführer, this is Reichsmarschall Reuters speaking…” the voice was as recognisable as Dietrich’s, with a tone that was ice cold and utterly devoid of compassion. “The objective before you is vital to the security of the Fatherland. We will do what we can to buy you as much time as we are able, however the advance must not be delayed for any reason. I am currently enroute to your position and expect to join you within the hour… Do I need to impress upon you further, Herr Wittman, the importance of the mission with which you have been tasked…?”
The loaded silence that followed was palpable at both ends of the transmission, although Wittman knew full well that there was only one answer he could give at that point, unpalatable as the situation was to him.
“I understand completely, mein herr,” he replied finally, resignation clear in his voice. “Orders acknowledged and understood… Panther Leader over and out…”
He immediately switched the radio over to his company frequency and began issuing orders.
“All units… all units… prepare for immediate advance. Reconnaissance troops to move up in extended line formation with main force in support…”
“They’re bloody civilians in front of us… thousands of them…” Merkel, his 2IC, was quick to respond over a private channel, his opinion of the orders clearly evident.
“Those are our orders whether we like it or not…” Wittman shot back tersely, stress showing through in his tone.
“What are we supposed to do… drive straight over them…?”
“We’ll give them time to clear out but we have our orders: we’ll do exactly that if we have to!”
“I don’t like this, Mein Herr...” Merkel growled warily, extremely unimpressed. “I don’t like this at all… We’re dangerously over-extended as it is; we’ve got barely a company of panzers with us – a bloody light one at that – and we’re seriously deficient in grenadier support… plus… our mobile artillery is still trying to catch up at the wrong end of a supply line stretching back the better part of thirty kilometres... if there is anything better prepared than civilians out there, we could be in for a very nasty surprise...!
“Emil, I just received those orders directly from Kurt Reuters himself,” Wittman snarled darkly, allowing a moment for the implication of that to sink in fully. “We are to take that bloody airfield and we are to do it in record ti
me... anything less, and it’ll us being driven over instead of those poor bastards out there on the road. If you have an alternative to offer that the Reichsmarschall is likely to find acceptable, feel free to let me know about it immediately... otherwise, the advance goes ahead as planned!”
The question of whether or not to open fire was decided for them in the end as the howl of Allied artillery overhead made both of men flinch and sent them diving for cover within their respective turrets. A single 25-pounder shell detonated in open space some distance away, but neither of them had any illusion as to how quickly that aim would improve. For an armoured column to be caught immobile and in the open in such a manner was to dice with death in no uncertain terms and neither Wittman nor his commanders were feeling particularly suicidal that day.
“All units move out…!” The young panzer leader howled over his unit radio, sealing the hatch above his head as another half-dozen shells landed to their left, this time slightly ahead of the formation and much closer. “Advance in line ahead – form on my position…!” He grimaced as he considered again the fate of the refugees before them and relented for a moment, adding: “All units: you are not to engage civilian traffic unless directly fired upon. Do not – I repeat – do not allow your movement to be impeded, however you are to provide opportunity for non-combatants to clear your path where possible.”
Wittman had serious doubts that last order would make any difference – it’d be the first to go ‘out the window’ should any real resistance materialise – but it went at least some way toward assuaging his conscience. The nearer they drew to the road, the less likely the British would also be to continue their bombardment… although he wasn’t certain they would place a great deal more value on the life of Egyptian civilians that did his own High Command. One could only hope…
Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2) Page 84