by Phil Ward
“If she gives you any trouble, tell her I said, ‘That’s an order.’”
“Want me to post a guard in front of Pam’s bedroom door?” Lt. Mandy said. “Lock her in her room like you threatened at Habbaniya?”
“Do what you have to do.”
• • •
Everyone at RFHQ gathered outside to watch the convoy from Oasis X
straggle into the compound. Ex-Sergeant Hank W. Rawlston was in the lead jeep chewing on the stub of a nasty cigar and looking thoroughly disgusted. Desert Patrol was a sad sight.
Vehicles towing vehicles were being towed themselves. Constant operations in harsh desert conditions without the downtime required to maintain the lightweight jeeps had proven too much for them. Jeeps can go almost anywhere, and they packed as much firepower as the average RAF fighter, but they needed time in the shop between missions. Desert Patrol gun jeeps had been bombed and strafed, had run over thermos mines and crashed driving cross-country at night—without being able to stand down for repairs for the duration of CRUSADER.
Desert Patrol had been badly misused—expected to raid long past the time it was intended to operate in the field. And, it had performed a mission it was not suited for—one that could have been better carried out by conventional armored car patrols.
OPERATION CRUSADER may have gone down in the books as a victory, but that was debatable. True, Rommel had failed to capture Tobruk, which was the basis for the claim. After a long, extended attempt, he had pulled back to his start point for no gain at the end of a very confused battle. The Desert Fox had outrun his ability to resupply the fuel he needed to keep attacking. Afrika Korps had lost virtually all of its tanks.
But then, so had Eighth Army.
Colonel John Randal did not look on the battle as a win. Desert Patrol was going to have to stand down to be completely reorganized. It needed new vehicles and new troops to replace the men who had been killed, sidelined with wounds or transferred back to their original units. Many of the latter group had chosen to leave, suffering burnout from operating behind enemy lines for extended periods of time.
Col. Randal could get more jeeps. Raiding Forces was never going to be able to replace the men lost with equally qualified desert operators—and he knew it.
“Sergeant Rawlston,” Col. Randal said, “tell your people I want them working hard days and partying just as hard nights for the next two weeks. Let ’em off early to get into Cairo.
“Patch up as many of the jeeps as you can. Keep the rest for parts. Write off the entire inventory—total loss.”
“Can do—that’s a plan, Colonel.”
“Start desert-izing the new jeeps as soon as they begin arriving—we need to get Desert Patrol back on operations as soon as possible.”
“Yes, sir.”
“How long’s it going to take?”
“Colonel, to get the job done in any reasonable time—say three weeks—we’re going to need outside help. My boys originally got Desert Patrol’s gun jeeps configured in small batches as we got ’em in when you expanded the number of patrols,” ex-Sergeant Rawlston said.
“This project’s a little too much for my crew to handle all at once without support.”
“OK,” Col. Randal said. “Let me see what I can do, Sergeant.”
“I’ll tell the boys what you said, Colonel,” ex-Sgt. Rawlston said, “about the partying.”
“You do that,” Col. Randal said. “Ice cold beer is waiting for your troops in the motor pool—I’ll drop by and have one later.”
• • •
At 1600 hours Colonel John Randal issued two Operations Orders. The first was held in the RFHQ Operations Room for everyone going on the mission—Raiders, door kickers, pilots, aircrew, Major Clive Adair, Major the Lady Jane Seaborn and her Marines chosen to man the Operations Room, Captain “Pyro” Percy Stirling, ex-Lieutenant Billy Jack Jaxx, Lieutenant Mandy Paige, Jim, Captain “Geronimo” Joe McKoy, Ensign Teddy Hamilton, Waldo and Major Jeb Pelham-Davies, DSO, MC.
The second order was going to be held immediately upon conclusion of the first in the third-floor suite for the RED INDIAN Team.
“Situation,” Col. Randal said to the crowd in the Operations Room.
“Afrika Korps has attacked east of the Gazala Line and reoccupied Benghazi. British Forces have been caught off guard and are falling back. Field Marshal Auchinleck is preparing a massive counterattack with an infusion of Grant tanks that have recently arrived from the U.S.” (This was an intentional falsehood in the event anyone going on the mission was captured and interrogated—there were no Grant tanks.)
“Mission: Raiding Forces has been tasked with setting up a deception on the edge of the Great Sand Sea south of the Afrika Korps’ right flank.
“Execution: A twenty-man team of Raiding Forces under the command of Major Jeb Pelham-Davies—promoted today, so congratulations are in order—will drop tonight at zero-two-thirty hours. The plan is to organize a diversion consisting of inflatable tanks and Arab tents with fake tank tracks leading up to them. The idea is to deceive enemy pilots into believing that a brigade of British tanks has magically sprouted up to threaten the Afrika Korps’ right.
“Major Pelham-Davies will be advised by Ensign Teddy Hamilton of Habbaniya fame—you’ll note the Ensign is wearing the Order of the British Empire on his blouse for his work during the siege. I can testify ‘The Great Teddy’ is a master at the art of military deception. He is also a world-class liar, having falsified his age on his admission forms to Eton and Sandhurst by not one but two years, because you have to be over eighteen to get into bars—who the hell knows his real age? Don’t ask.”
There was stunned silence as the crowd digested that unexpected piece of intelligence information, then everyone in the room (with the exception of Lady Jane) was on their feet laughing and cheering. Ensign Hamilton had the right stuff.
When everyone had regained their seats, Col. Randal said, “In addition, Major Adair will be responsible for setting up a radio deception to go with the phony tanks. His Phantom operators will simulate radio traffic that would normally be expected from a British armored brigade.
“Major Corrigan, also promoted this day, will travel overland to arrive at the objective on day two with a convoy of forty trucks containing more deception material.
“Simultaneously,” Col. Randal said, “another operation will be taking place approximately two hundred miles east of the drop zone. That mission is classified. The troops involved will be linking up with the main party on the second day, transported by Y-Patrol of the Long Range Desert Group.
“Concept of the Operation: A twenty-man advance party of Raiding Forces will drop tonight to set up a phantom armored brigade. Ensign Hamilton will supervise the construction with the materials that will be air-dropped with the advance party—if Ted says frog, you jump.
“Major Adair will initiate the radio deception.
“Major Corrigan, traveling overland with a forty-truck convoy containing more deception materials, will be reaching the main party sometime on day two.
“Raiding Forces will maintain the deception until such time as ordered by GHQ to stand down.
“This concludes my briefing,” Col. Randal said. “What are your questions?”
This mission was so crazy no one even knew what to ask—there were no questions.
Following the order in the Operations Room, a second “frag” order (a fragment of a full OP Order) was issued in the small map area of Col. Randal’s suite for the team going on the RED INDIAN mission. Present were Jim Taylor, Capt. Stirling, Capt. McKoy, ex-Lt. Jaxx, Lieutenant Pamala Plum-Martin, Lovat Scouts Munro Ferguson and Lionel Fenwick, the two Ranger Patrol Phantom operators McQueen and Masterson (who had been schooled in specific RED INDIAN material to search for), Lt. Mandy and Waldo.
Lady Jane sat in because, well, she wanted to.
What had originally been planned as a small raiding party had ballooned to ten men due to all the strap hangers who
wanted to tag along.
“Mission: We have been assigned a RED INDIAN target,” Col. Randal said. (No one present in the room, including Jim and Col. Randal, knew all the details of a RED INDIAN—that was classified Ultra Secret—a security classification so high that Jim was the only person in the room even cleared to hear the code word.)
“Execution: The RED INDIAN Team will drop tonight on a DZ set up by Y-Patrol of the LRDG at grid coordinates AZ783296. The party will be broken down into three elements. Assault Team: Myself, Lieutenant Jaxx, King and Phantom operators—McQueen and Masterson.
“Demolitions Team: Captain Stirling and Lovat Scouts Fenwick and Ferguson.
“Support Team: General Taylor, Captain McKoy and Mr. Treywick.
“Concept of the Operation: The RED INDIAN Team will drop, and travel on foot to the objective, which will be approximately one mile distance.
“The Assault Team will take down a small rail depot expected to be manned by no more than eight Italian railroad men. Once the objective is secured, McQueen and Masterson will conduct a search of the premises while Lieutenant Jaxx, King and I place demolitions inside the building.
“Demolitions Team: Captain Stirling—with Fenwick and Ferguson providing security—will place a small charge on the railroad track with the idea to cut it so that the train scheduled to arrive at zero-five-thirty hours will derail and crash into the depot. The resulting crash and command detonated explosion inside the depot is intended to erase any sign of our presence.
“The Support Team will stand by, ready to go to the assistance of either the Assault Team or the Demolitions Team in the event it should become necessary.
“Following successful completion of the mission—to include observing the target to confirm the train derailment—the RED INDIAN Team will withdraw to the objective rally point where Y-Patrol will be laagered. Upon arriving, we will be transported to the location where Ensign Hamilton is conducting his deception.
“This mission never happened,” Col. Randal said. “We were never there.
“Questions?”
• • •
Squadron Leader Paddy Wilcox, DSO, OBE, MC, DFC, arrived at RFHQ shortly after the briefings wearing his trademark black eye patch over one perfectly good eye. The pilot had been away flying for SOE. He threw the mother of all temper tantrums after Wing Commander Ronald Gordon and Lieutenant Pamala Plum-Martin briefed him on the air plan.
It called for the Vargas Girl-looking Royal Marine pilot to fly to the first drop zone (DZ) in formation with the other two Hudsons, then continue on to the Y-Patrol DZ alone to drop the RED INDIAN Team. Which meant she would have to make part of the trip out and the entire long return flight home alone.
Raiding Forces Standard Operating Procedure (SOP) for Air Operations, which S/ Ldr. Wilcox had laid down, called for aircraft to always fly in pairs on over-desert flights. The only reason Lt. Plum-Martin had agreed to violate SOP, being MI-6, is she knew how extremely high-priority RED INDIAN missions were.
S/Ldr. Wilcox was MI-6 himself. He was not about to allow Lt. Plum Martin to fly solo. Period.
Finally, after getting an earful from S/Ldr. Wilcox, whom he outranked, W/Cdr. Gordon got on the blower to his boss. Within the hour, the Air Vice Marshal commanding the Desert Air Force’s personal Hudson arrived at the auxiliary airstrip Raiding Forces was using. It would become the fourth ship in the flight, which would allow the planes to fly in pairs after the initial drop.
After more wrangling, S/Ldr. Wilcox reluctantly consented to allow the Air Vice Marshal’s personal pilot to fly the mission as his co-pilot, but insisted on bringing his own navigator.
Now, with the moving parts in place, all that remained was for the mission to get underway.
As the sun went down, Colonel John Randal was lying on his parachute next to Lt. Plum-Martin’s Hudson with the RED INDIAN Team thinking, The waiting is always the hardest part.
10
TRAINS RUN ON TIME
The red light came on in the Hudson. The Red Indian team stirred. They were stiff. The Raiders had been doing a lot of flying.
Colonel John Randal said, “Ten minutes.”
Everyone on board knew what the red light indicated; however, protocol called for the jumpmaster to give the command. So he did.
For the one hundredth time tonight, Col. Randal touch-checked every piece of his gear. Everything was right where it was the previous ninety-nine times he checked. Then he stood up and made his way forward to the cockpit.
Lieutenant Pamala Plum-Martin was in the pilot’s seat with her ex-LRDG navigator sitting in the co-pilot’s chair. “Hi, John—we should be coming in sight of the DZ any moment now. Have a nice flight?”
“Slept the whole way.”
“There it is,” Lt. Plum-Martin said.
Ahead in the night a tiny pinpoint glowed faintly. Lt. Plum-Martin had extraordinary eyesight—Col. Randal knew because he had extraordinary eyesight.
“Nice job, Corporal,” Col. Randal said to the navigator. He knew how difficult desert navigation was, especially at night.
“Coming on six minutes,” Lt. Plum-Martin said. “Good luck, John—see you soon, love.”
“Make sure you get this crate home, Pam.”
Col. Randal made his way back to the tail, and with ex-Lieutenant Billy Jack Jaxx helping him, opened the door. Reaching up and gripping the inside edges with his white boots (Raiding Forces never polished their field boots—all the time in the desert had sandblasted them almost snow white) on either side of the door, he arched out and looked ahead.
The force of the wind tore at his face, distorting it and blurring his vision. Col. Randal always liked the feel—hanging outside of an aircraft thundering toward a point up ahead where he and a team of heavily-armed men were going to jump out with bad intent. Only, he was always a little anxious about heights—that last was classified.
Looking back, he could see the other Hudson tucked in tight formation, flying in trail. Except for the crew, it was empty, having dropped its bundles at the first DZ. It would have been nice to split the RED INDIAN Team into two sticks and jumped both aircraft. The lead plane would not have been so crowded, and it would have put everyone on the ground quicker in a tighter pattern. However, since it was the Air Vice Marshal’s personal plane, no one had considered the possibility of dropping paratroopers from it. There were no static line cables in place when it arrived at the departure airfield and no time to rig them.
Col. Randal swung back inside, glanced at the lime green hands on the Rolex Lady Jane had given him and issued the command everyone had been anticipating for the entire trip. “SIX MINUTES!”
The men struggled to their feet. As they were getting up, the ex-LRDG navigator made his way to the far end of the tail. He would retrieve the static lines after the jump and close the door of the aircraft.
“HOOK UP!”
The sound of metal on metal filled the cabin as snap links were clamped on the cable, pulled down tight shut, safety pins inserted and the static line rattled back and forth to make sure everything was firmly set and the snap link was running freely on the cable.
Tension was always high at this point, but the RED INDIAN team was made up of seasoned professionals, so tonight—not as much.
“CHECK YOUR EQUIPMENT!”
Every jumper ran his hands over all his equipment, then traced the yellow static line of the man in front of him to make sure it ran out of the parachute pack and over his shoulder without any kinks or snags. Col. Randal turned around so ex-Lt. Jaxx, who would be following him out the door, could check his.
“OK, sir.”
Col. Randal turned to the door and arched himself outside once again. A burning Y was clearly visible off the right toe of his raiding boot. No other light was visible as far as the eye could see in any direction. A quick glance back at the trailing plane, then he swung back inside. He checked his watch.
“ONE MINUTE!”
“SOUND OFF FOR EQUIPMENT CHE
CK!”
Starting from the back of the stick, “OK, OK, OK. . . . .”
Col. Randal reached out and braced his left arm across the door. These men had lightning fast reflexes. He was not taking any chances on anyone going before he gave the command.
“CLOSE ON THE DOOR!”
Silently counting in his head, Col. Randal reached the magic number just as the green light flashed on. He slapped his hands on the outside of the door, knees bent in a crouch, looked over his shoulder and shouted, “GO!”
Then with a mighty leap, he exited the aircraft—feet and knees together, head down, chin on his chest—and in an instant he was being tossed around by the prop blast. Col. Randal had his eyes open. Everything seemed to be going in slow motion. From his peripheral vision he could see ex-Lt. Jaxx coming out the door in a perfect body position; at the same time he was watching the fuselage of the Hudson slide past like a giant shark.
There was the rustling of silk then the X-chute was open and he was floating almost in a dream state. Down below he could see the burning Y. He was drifting straight toward it.
The night was very quiet.
No need to pull a slip. There was very little breeze. Coming in almost straight down, slightly to the right, Col. Randal got his feet and knees together again and pulled his elbows in with forearms closed tight in front of his face. Glancing down, he saw the ground blur. His toes touched down, he prepared for a right front Parachute Landing Fall (PLF) and then he was rolling—hitting his five points of contact.
The ground was soft and Col. Randal barely felt the fall. He was on his feet immediately, feeling the rush of adrenalin that is always the hallmark of a successful jump from an aircraft in flight.
An LRDG patrolman arrived and was collapsing his canopy before Col. Randal could hammer the quick release on his chest with his fist.
Ex-Lt. Jaxx came in silent as a butterfly, followed by King, Jim and the rest of the RED INDIAN team.
LRDG men came up lugging the wing bundles that Lt. Plum-Martin had dropped. The bundles contained the explosives for the train station. All of them had been retrieved—which is always a concern when air dropping vital equipment needed for a clandestine mission. It can be a bad thing if you are unable to find the bundles or locate only some of them.