by Phil Ward
So far, so good.
The idea of jumping out of an airplane in the dark of night with a team of handpicked men to carry out a small-scale pin-prick raid against an unsuspecting target seems easy enough to the uninitiated. It’s not.
What could possibly go wrong? Almost everything.
Col. Randal coordinated with Captain Teasdale Brown-Brown in command of Y-Patrol. The Y stood for Yeomanry Patrol, meaning the officers and men had been recruited from county cavalry regiments like the Lancelot Lancers.
Within the LRDG, Y-Patrol tended to be looked upon as a bunch of aristocratic snobs. That did not bother them in the least. The Yeomanry were a clannish patrol, even though they came from different regiments.
“When I fire a single green flare,” Col. Randal said, “send up the truck with the explosives on board.”
“Sir!”
“In the event I fire two green flares, bring up all your 30-cwt Chevrolets immediately, ready to engage with your organic machine guns,” Col. Randal said.
“Don’t worry—the likelihood of that happening is virtually nonexistent—but stand ready in any case.”
“You can count on us, Colonel,” Capt. Brown-Brown said. “The lads have been on deep desert reconnaissance operations for the last ninety days. Not a shot fired in anger. I, for one, would welcome the opportunity of a beat up on your target if the opportunity presents itself.”
“We’re going to hope it doesn’t,” Col. Randal said.
Ex-Lt. Jaxx reported, being careful not to use the mission identifier RED INDIAN, which was classified. “Team assembled and prepared to move out, sir.”
“Let’s do this,” Col. Randal ordered. “King, lead out.”
• • •
Red Indian Team patrolled to the objective. The night was still but chilly. It was quiet. The moon was down, but the sky was salted with a million stars.
Night time in the desert is the best time.
The order of march was Assault Team, Demolitions Team, then Support Team. Colonel John Randal followed King, with ex-Lieutenant Billy Jack Jaxx right behind him. The patrol moved as silently as a pride of panthers—which they were.
King halted. Col. Randal moved up next to him. The Merc pointed. It was barely possible to make out the silhouette of the train station. The building was blacked out. The time was 0450 hours.
The train was supposed to arrive at 0530 hours.
Captain “Geronimo” Joe McKoy moved forward, picking up Captain “Pyro” Percy Stirling as he came.
Speaking in a soft voice just above a whisper, Col. Randal said, “This is the Objective Rally Point. Capt. McKoy, set up your Security Team here.”
“Roger, John—we’ll come get you if you need us.”
“Capt. Stirling,” Col. Randal said, “take your Demo Team and move out.”
“Traveling now, sir.”
There was a soft rustling as the patrol split into sections and began the choreographed series of movements that would put everyone in the right place at the right time—which was running short. RED INDIAN Team was going to have to work fast. It had a schedule to keep.
The Assault Team was broken down into two sections. Attack element: Col. Randal, ex-Lt. Jaxx and King. Search element: Phantom operators McQueen and Masterson. There was no timetable for the assault to begin. It would commence the instant they were in place.
Col. Randal was clicked on and had been from the moment the Assault Team had moved out from the LRDG perimeter. He was very aware. Sounds seemed distorted. Movement felt like it was taking place in slow motion—floating.
As usual, Col. Randal had the sensation he was looking down on the patrol—observing it from above rather than leading it—he had never told anyone about this sensation.
Tonight he was armed, as usual, with his 9mm MAB-38A submachine gun and had his 45mm Brixia shoulder-fired mortar slung over his shoulder. There were three fat 45mm rounds tucked in a canvas bandoleer laced to the stock of the weapon. Lieutenant Karen Montgomery, the Chief Rigger, had made it for him.
If three rounds did not get the job done tonight, they were in a lot of trouble.
The plan of attack was as simple as it gets, which complied with Raiding Forces’ Rules to “Keep It Short and Simple.” Col. Randal, King and ex-Lt. Jaxx would make the initial entry. The trio would shoot everyone inside the building. Then the two Phantom operators would come in and everyone would break out flashlights to search for the RED INDIAN materials. Code books, keys, and any other written documents. But not any signals devices—they were to be left behind.
No one on the team understood the prohibition against confiscating physical equipment, but orders were orders. There had to be some reason. No one told them what it was.
The hope was that the front door would be left open to let air in while the railroad men slept. The Raiders padded silently up to the building, coming in from the rear, then flowing around to the front, but discovered the door was shut.
To compound the problem, the door was thick wood—not going to be able to kick it down. Not with people inside who would wake up and shoot back. When King turned the knob, it was locked.
Raiding Forces’ Rules stipulated, “It’s Good to Have a Plan B.” And that is a military fact. This contingency had been planned for.
Silently, the Attack element split into three smaller sections. King and one Phantom operator slipped back around the side on the far end of the building while ex-Lt. Jaxx and the other Phantom operator took up position on the near end of the building—with strict orders not to peek around the corner until Col. Randal gave the OK.
Col. Randal dropped back approximately fifteen yards. He swapped the submachine gun for the shoulder-fired mortar and plopped a fat 45mm round into the chamber. The stubby weapon came to his shoulder easily. He fired immediately.
KABOOOM!
The detonation sounded unnaturally loud in the still desert air—the door disintegrated.
As quickly as Col. Randal could reload, he put a second round through the opening. The instant it exploded, he shouted, “Jack and King, move out!”
Ex-Lt. Jaxx and King charged back around to the front of the depot and made entry, firing their Beretta 9mm submachine guns as they came through the door. Col. Randal moved forward, entered the building with a Colt .38 Super in one hand and a flashlight in the other. A quick glance confirmed all six of the Italians inside appeared to be dead—one was faking it.
Holding his pistol down by his side without aiming, Col. Randal shot the man twice as he stepped over him. He called out the door, “Search party.”
The two Phantom operators came in, flashlights blazing, and the search began. As the men worked, Col. Randal walked outside and fired a single green flare back in the direction of Y-Patrol.
Within a matter of seconds, a Chevrolet truck appeared out of the dark and the explosives in the bed were carried inside. It took several trips. Capt. Stirling arrived with Lovat Scouts Fenwick and Ferguson, having placed all his demolitions on the track. The rails made a slight curve with an almost imperceptible downhill slope to the depot—the perfect set-up.
Capt. Stirling affixed the detonator to the explosives in the station and ran the electrical cable out the front door. Then he walked the spool back to where the Support Team was waiting in the Objective Rally Point and hooked it up to the ten-cap blasting machine.
Everything was going like clockwork—a textbook surgical strike.
TOOOOOT! TOOOOOT!
Everyone in the building froze—the train—and it was twenty-minutes early. So much for Mussolini making the railroads run on time.
CRAAAACK!
The pressure cap on Capt. Stirling’s charge detonated as the leading wheel of the engine ran over the blasting cap, cutting the track and derailing the train as planned. The placing of the demolitions was textbook perfect.
Metal began screaming.
“Run for it!” Col. Randal shouted.
There was a mad rush for the door as ev
eryone tried to get out at the same time. The metal was screeching louder, sounding like something out of a Saturday matinee horror movie, only worse—a pack of tyrannosaurus-rex-sized screaming banshees coming to kill them.
The shrieking was terrifying.
“Haul ass!” ex-Lt. Jaxx shouted at the LRDG men in the truck as he ran by. The patrolmen bailed out of the Chevrolet and sprinted after the Raiders, although they could have just as easily driven, not having any idea why—questions not being on at the moment.
The screeching—shrieking—surreal screaming of tearing metal was painful to the ears. It kept getting louder and seemed alive—but mortally wounded. Like a giant, supernatural beast in its death throes.
Out of the dark the locomotive loomed, plowing through the sand, then tumbling into the depot—exactly as planned—just twenty minutes too soon. It nearly took out the Attack element and the LRDG men, who were fleeing for their lives around the far end of the station, running as hard as they could.
At the ORP, Capt. Stirling pushed down the plunger on the blasting machine when the engine hit the building, as ordered, detonating one hundred pounds of Composition B.
The resulting explosion blew the running Raiders and LRDG men completely off their feet. To a man, they thought they were dead. Waves of pain from being slammed into the ground confirmed they were not—yet. But the night was not over.
Behind them the sound of screeching, screaming metal intensified—getting louder and louder as the train continued to derail. The boxcars were crashing crazily into the inferno created by the Composition B. And now the men learned that this was an ammunition train, a fact previously unknown. The cars were loaded primarily with artillery and panzer shells for Afrika Korps with a few cars of small-arms ammunition.
The artillery rounds began cooking off when the railcars crashed, followed by a brilliant, spontaneous explosion. As the follow-on cars derailed, they continued to pile up. Then they blew up—one after the other.
The small-arms ammunition was crackling insanely as it cooked off.
Night turned to day in a spectacular pyrotechnics display. Shrapnel whined overhead, though some of the larger pieces made only a loud, tumbling, heart-stopping whisper—you could hear it coming, flying overhead, and going. Some pieces the size of pianos were thudding into the ground all around in the dark, which did nothing for anyone’s morale.
The boxcars kept rolling into the cut metal, screeching as they derailed and exploded. Remarkably, none of the Raiders or LRDG patrolmen were injured, but they were all shaken. Everyone managed to make it to the ORP where Col. Randal found the Support Team and the Demolitions Team members to be almost as stunned by the turn of events as his Attack Team men were.
Even Capt. Stirling, who had seen his share of unexpected big-time fireworks up close and personal, seemed dazed.
Railcars continued to crash, catch fire and explode. Those that had already blown up were on fire. The rail line looked like a long burning snake—with secondary blasts rippling down its length.
At last, when everyone had recovered their wits, an inventory revealed not a single piece of RED INDIAN material had made it to the ORP. Every item collected had been left behind in the stampede to safety.
To add insult to injury, the 30-cwt Chevrolet was knocked out. It could be seen burning. Col. Randal, the Attack Team and dismounted LRDG attachments had to trudge back to the Y-Patrol laager where they found everyone thoroughly enjoying the show.
Except to argue about who had been the most scared, Raiding Forces’ personnel did not have much to say.
The RED INDIAN mission was a total bust.
For their part, the LRDG people, who did not know there was a RED INDIAN mission, were ecstatic. They had seen more action in ten minutes tonight than they had seen in the last ten months.
Several members of Y-Patrol were now considering volunteering for Raiding Forces.
• • •
When Y-Patrol drove into Major Jeb Pelham-Davies’ perimeter after dark the next day, Ensign Teddy Hamilton, aka “The Great Teddy,” asked Colonel John Randal first thing: “How did the plan to wreck the train work out, sir?”
“Just swell.”
11
SHOT PLACEMENT
When the sun came up, Colonel John Randal could see all the work that had been done to create the illusion that a British armored brigade had arrived on the edge of the Great Sand Sea, threatening Afrika Korps’ right flank. Arab tents dotted the landscape. There were tank tracks leading up to them, which represented hard labor on the stony ground. Many of the tents had what appeared to be the barrels of tanks’ main guns peeking out. Other tanks were poorly camouflaged under netting. Most tents had cooking fires going—typical Tommies, brewing up.
All in all, it was about the worst camouflaged British armored brigade in the history of tank warfare. Col. Randal realized that was a good thing. If the idea is to fool enemy air reconnaissance, then you want the enemy pilots to see what it is they think you are hiding from them.
The location of Ensign Teddy Hamilton’s deception appeared to have been chosen at random—one patch of desert seeming to be about as good as any other. In fact, the spot had been selected with great care. First off, it was on the very edge of the “good going,” which was the scrub brush, hard ground—a strip approximately fifty miles wide and 1,500 miles long between the Mediterranean and the Sand Sea where all the fighting took place. Far enough out that Afrika Korps would likely never have any reason to venture near.
It was sited on a seldom-used desert track, which meant the camouflaged tanks could have arrived by wheeled tank carrier—a vital aspect of “The Great Teddy’s” deception plan since it meant he only had to create fake tank tracks for a short distance leading up to the Arab tents. And the track could be used as a landing strip if it became necessary to evacuate anyone who became sick or wounded.
Also, the site was located within twenty miles of a small Italian fort. Later in the afternoon, a half hour before sunset, the two Hudsons were going to return and lay down an airborne carpet of parachutes weighted with blocks of ice in plain sight of the fort. Parachutists landing, it was hoped, would guarantee a hysterical response from the Italians to their higher headquarters.
Major Clive Adair had his Phantom operators open for business. They were set up a safe distance from the tents so as not to be caught in the crossfire when battle commenced. They were busy sending messages back and forth to each other. And their team located at RFHQ was simulating the radio traffic that would be expected from an armored brigade’s higher HQ. The Germans had an excellent (bordering on phenomenal) radio intercept capability. It was a safe bet they would be monitoring the signals.
The Phantom operators were mimicking the sloppy communications procedures that haunted British operations.
Major Taylor Corrigan’s twenty-man element was spread out in one-man positions hiding under camouflage netting throughout the position, but taking great care not to be too close to any of the Arab tents with the fake tank tracks leading up to them—which, it was hoped, would be bombed sooner or later. Each man had a Vickers K machine gun and five spare ammunition drums in addition to his individual weapon. Most of the men also had Bren guns captured during the invasion of Persia.
If and when the Regia Aeronautica or the Luftwaffe showed up, the plan was for the Raiders to fight back with everything they had.
Ens. Hamilton gave Col. Randal a tour. On the ground it did not appear the position could fool anyone. However, the Great Teddy’s deception only had to fool enemy pilots.
No one, meaning Arab nomads or a reconnaissance patrol from the Italian fort (which was highly unlikely—the Italians were not known to venture outside the walls) was going to be allowed to approach within a mile.
Lovat Scouts armed with tripod-mounted, scoped Boys .55 caliber Anti-Tank rifles had set up a perimeter, screening the site to discourage visitors.
Captain “Pyro” Percy Stirling was busy setting out smoke p
ots and other pyrotechnic devices that he was wiring to a central control panel where Ens. Hamilton could orchestrate all manner of simulated explosions and fake anti-aircraft fire.
“Looks like you have a plan, Ensign,” Col. Randal said. “Think it’ll work?”
“Yes, sir,” Ens. Hamilton said. “The illusion will only get better when Major Pelham-Davies arrives. We shall turn his trucks into tanks, set up the additional tents he will be bringing with him to make it look like the brigade is building up—might even deceive the Nazis into believing we have a division.”
“If you get all our trucks shot up, Ted,” Col. Randal said, “we won’t have any way to get the hell out of Dodge in the event Afrika Korps decides to send a ground force to attack us.”
“I shall place five trucks in deep concealment out of the line of fire, sir,” Ens. Hamilton said, “in case we have to bug out.”
Col. Randal said, “Good plan.”
• • •
Major Taylor Corrigan arrived with his convoy, consisting of thirty civilian trucks of mixed brands and models. He also brought with him six of the SDF jeeps. The unloading of supplies began immediately.
While everyone worked on making improvements to the deception, Colonel John Randal crouched under a camouflage net with Major Jeb Pelham-Davies and Maj. Corrigan to conduct a commander’s call.
“As you know,” Col. Randal said, “Desert Patrol has to do a major reorganization. To that end, we’re getting in fifty volunteers from the U.S. in a few days.
“Terry is recovering, but he won’t be available for duty for a couple of months. When Zorro returns, he’s informed me he doesn’t want to resume command of Desert Patrol—his idea is to run the Lounge Lizards full-time.
“Major Black has been offered his own armored car regiment, so he will be leaving Raiding Forces.
“What I’m thinking is to have Captain McCloud assume command of the Wing when he gets back. Taylor, I’d like you to take over Sea Squadron, and Jeb, I want you at Desert Patrol—you two switch jobs.”