“If the collapse of the Soviet forces there has created the necessary conditions, preparations will be made for the dispatch of a motorized expeditionary force from Transcaucasia against Iraq, with the aim of further reinforcing the Vichy French position in Syria.”
Turkey will see the light soon enough, he thought, and once that obstacle is removed, and I have freedom of movement in Asia Minor, then the British will soon feel the full weight of German military power. The forces committed to Syria to stop the British offensive there must be sustained and supported, but we cannot yet rely on sea communications to the Levant. So everything depends on Barbarossa now—on Manstein and the southern wing. Halder will not like this, but he will be silenced, even removed if necessary. Keitel and the others will come along. He smiled, clasping his hands behind his back, and spoke again to the aides who struggled to transcribe his words.
“Whether and in what way it may be possible to wreck finally the English position between the Mediterranean and the Persian Gulf, in conjunction with an offensive against Suez Canal, is still in the lap of the Gods…” No, he thought. It is in my lap. The Gods will have nothing more to do with it once I have German troops in the Caucasus.
“Amend that last phrase,” he corrected himself. “Write instead… this is a question that can only be answered after Barbarossa.”
* * *
While the Führer was planning all these sweeping maneuvers on the field of war, the Russians were making plans as well—not in the drafty halls of the Kremlin, where Sergie Kirov nervously watched the buildup on his southern front, but near a small town in Syria, west of Damascus. Troyak was huddling with Zykov, who had just returned from his night patrol on the far left flank.
“I was up on the high ground to the west,” said Zykov. “They put out a few patrols looking for a way around our flank, but the ground is very open there. Nothing but goat tracks, stony hills, and bare earth. They aren’t stupid, and they know we’d see any movement in that direction easily enough. I don’t think they’ll try a major flanking maneuver.”
“Well, we won’t be here to find out,” said Popski. “They’re going to move in a heavy battalion from Brigadier Kinlan’s force to fight alongside the Gurkhas. We’re to move out tonight and return to the bridge at Sassa. Then we get a nice long ride on that helicontraption of yours. We’re joining Kingcol and Glubb Pasha out east, and they’ve a very special mission planned—just for us!” He smiled. “But I don’t think the French are going to like it when they get a look at your lot. Not one bit.”
“Where are we headed this time?”
“A mission in the desert again—something your Captain Fedorov dug up from his history books.”
“Good,” said Zykov, checking his assault rifle. I hope it’s a long flight. I could use the sleep! Any word from the Gurkhas?”
“They’re in Qatana, at least the one company on our right. I don’t think the Argonauts have to worry about that flank. That’s one tough outfit.”
* * *
One tough outfit was a bit of an understatement when it came to Colonel Gondar’s Gurkha Battalion. It was rigged out with all the weaponry and optics that the Argonauts had, along with the cold steel of those Kukri war knives. They had moved rapidly through the Golan heights, quickly overwhelmed the 3/17th Senegal Rifle Battalion at the vital town of Kunietra along the main road to Damascus, and then pushed north. Now they were preparing to attack the French defense at Aartouz, the next major settlement on that road. There they would encounter other determined men, well schooled in the art of war, the soldiers of the vaunted French Foreign Legion.
There, dug into positions in the sedate gardens, beneath poplar trees that lined the streets, and hidden in the white stone walled houses of the village, the Legionnaires of 1/6 Battalion were waiting behind their BAR machineguns, and MAS-36 bolt action rifles. They had loopholed the walls with bayonets to create view slits for firing, broken out any glass windows, and reinforced the wood doors. The low rickety fences around the gardens had been sandbagged. Behind their main positions, hidden in an orchard off the right side of the road, was the 2nd Company, 63rd battalion of the 7th African Chasseurs—17 Renault R-35 tanks and a number of White and Lafley armored cars.
Against this reinforced battalion, Colonel Gandar would now send his 1st Company of Gurkhas, supported by one troop of Scimitar tanks. They would be outnumbered three to one by the defenders, but it was to be a night attack, where the advantage of night vision and thermal optics would benefit the attackers.
The Gurkhas moved out along the right side of the main road, where another dirt track also followed the winding course of a small gulley. There were small farms, a single house where the owner had planted a grove of 24 olive or date trees on his narrow lot, and beyond them a bigger field planted with melons and grape vines. Lance Naik, (Lance Corporal) Sundar was out on point with his squad, scanning ahead with his night vision set. He discovered a single outpost that looked to be a machine gun position and the decision was made to use the squad sniper to take it out without raising the alarm.
Sniper Rana Sunil was given the job, using the powerful night optics on his L1115A3 Long Range Rifle. He was camouflaged in his gillie suit, the ragged shreds bunched on his helmet and trailing down from his shoulders. He unfolded his stock, and crept stealthily to a good firing position, making a quick pinpoint check with his pocket Laser Range Finder. The target was just over 300 meters off, and his powerful night sights with their image intensifier function could clearly reveal targets over 750 meters out.
Sniper Sunil checked his noise and flash suppressor, not wanting to reveal his position. Then he sighted, and in one breathless moment the muffled snap of his rifle became the first shot of the battle for Aartouz. There were two targets, and he fired twice—two shots, two quick kills, and the French Machinegun post was silent and still. Sunil pinched off his command liaison signal, which sent a single tone to his Halvidar, the Sergeant in command of his squad.
Dhruna Rai got the message and waved his men on with a slow, level motion of his arm. The Gurkhas moved like silent death, crouching low and using the considerable cover available to pick their way forward. They reached the farm house where the MG position had been posted, advancing in short, quiet rushes. Then trooper Resham heard voices from within, though it was nothing more than two men joking and talking in the soft early evening, a corporal and another French private, the relief team for the two men on the machinegun that were already dead. A single grenade would have settled that, but it would have been much too noisy, so Resham reached for the long curved Kukri knife slung behind his right hip, and slowly drew it out, holding it low so as not to catch the light of the waning gibbous moon.
Resham was up, his back to the whitewashed masonry wall by the sun bleached wood door. Then in a sudden motion he shouldered through the barrier, startling the two men inside who had been drinking liquor from small shot glasses. It was their last drink, one man caught with the glass poised at his lips when Resham became death in the night, his cold blade ending the little party in a blur of motion and violence.
The farm secured, Havildar Druna Rai got his squad positioned at a low hedge bordering the melon grove behind the farm house, and signaled his company Subedar. He knew that two other squads were moving on his right, the dark shadows of war creeping slowly forward over the landscape. Beyond this was a high, bare hill that had been scouted just after dark to eliminate a mortar team there. That flank secure, the attack was ready to move out in force. Druna Rai’s platoon was coming in close to the road, but the main effort would be beyond that hill on the right, where the other two platoons would flank the town, approaching to either side of a secondary road. It was the Sergeant’s job to open the attack and fix the enemy defense on his platoon. Behind his men, on the main road, a column of Scimitar scout tanks waited in reserve.
At 19:00 the company weapons teams opened the action up with their mortar fire, the rounds whistling in and exploding loudly as D
runa Rai hastened his squad forward. They rushed past a water cairn, across an open field into another scraggly orchard that washed against a huddle of low stone buildings by the thin dirt track. Then the harsh rattle of a BAR chopped out a challenge, and they heard the high whistles of the enemy being called to arms. Legionnaires seized their rifles, down from slung hammocks where they had just settled in for the night, ready to join the defense. A French Sergeant cuffed one man who was just a little too slow on the back of the head, but the soldier needed no encouragement. It was time to fight.
A squad of Gurkhas on Druna Rai’s left had broken into a long, blue roofed barn at the edge of a flat empty field of bare earth. The French were on the other side, and that squad opened a hot firefight, their assault rifles spraying the white stucco walls and being answered by BARs and bolt action rifle fire. But the Gurkhas had no intention of simply slugging it out against these prepared positions. Druna Rai had two weapon’s teams with the short barreled AT4 84mm light anti-tank weapon, which was also a perfect assault tool against a fortified position. It was a shoulder fired, recoilless weapon that could be fired by a single man, and his teams quickly blasted the white stucco walls that protected the French troops, the rounds penetrating easily to kill most every man within the small interior rooms.
The Gurkhas moved again, fire teams laying down suppressive fire in the event any of the enemy survived the shock of the AT4s. The troops were up at the run, across the bare field and over the position in a few seconds. They were entering the outlying blocks of the town, where similar houses sat in rows of three or five buildings between the gully track and the main road. In crisp urban fighting, they ruthlessly cleared the block, grenades taking out another French BAR team there. Another barren field was the real obstacle, and a French 37mm AT gun had been sited to cover the road over that good field of fire, protected by two machineguns that were now raking the positions the Gurkhas had just stormed.
It was time for the Scimitars.
The main road had been cleared of enfilading enemy to that point, and Havildar Druna Rai called back to the British troopers in the Scimitar troop under Lieutenant Miller. He tapped the turret top with his gloved knuckle, two quick knocks to indicate his intent, then slipped down through the open hatch, sealing it behind him. The AT4 fire teams had one more job to do before he got there. That 37mm French AT gun had blasted one of the buildings taken by the Gurkhas, putting one man down with a shrapnel wound. The AT4 answered and silenced the gun position with a shuddering explosion. The growl of the light tanks on the main road was soon heard, the first tank halting right at the edge of the buildings occupied by the Gurkhas. It soon put its 37mm autocannon to work on those two French MG positions, and the Gurkhas moved forward over the open field, rushing the position as they now began to work their way into the center of the town.
But a squad of Legionnaires had been lying low in a line of huts to the far right of Druna Rai’s audacious advance. Now they opened fire with their rifles, and a single BAR. The Sergeant could hear the sound of assault rifles off to the right, and knew the main attack was going in on that flank now. He did not want to waste time here, and ordered his men to suppress the enemy fire.
“Full automatic!” he shouted, and the assault rifles of his ten man squad put out withering fire on the enemy positions. Then, man by man, the Gurkha advance continued. When the firefight subsided briefly the Sergeant listened in the quiet and suddenly heard the rattle of enemy tank treads ahead.
The French were bringing up their Renault 35s.
Part VI
Catch 22
“Destiny is a good thing to accept when it's going your way. When it isn't, don't call it destiny; call it injustice, treachery, or simple bad luck… There was only one catch and that was Catch-22, which specified that a concern for one's safety in the face of dangers that were real and immediate was the process of a rational mind.”
― Joseph Heller: Catch 22
Chapter 16
John Bagot Glubb had “gone Arab” long ago, another desert loving Englishman like the fabled Lawrence of Arabia, who went off to the desert as a young man to seek his fame, if not his fortune. He soon fell in with General Frederick Peake, then known as Peake Pasha, and the founder of the Arab Legion. A fluent speaker of Arabic, and well schooled in the ways of both the desert and the Bedouin tribes that inhabited the place, Glubb proved most useful. He learned everything he knew the hard way, in the desert itself, where he had once taken a 500 mile camel ride with the tribes. Now he adopted their ways, earning their growing respect as he did so, a leader from the British Empire that was embraced as one of their own.
To look at him one would not think the man capable of the things history recorded in his name. He was a diminutive, almost impish figure, with a round bulbous nose, deep blue eyes, sandy hair and ruddy complexion, with a small mustache. A wisp of a smile was often on his lips, and he listened much more than he ever spoke. The wound he had suffered in WWI when a bullet grazed his chin gave him an odd, cheeky look, and he had a quiet disposition that belied the inner strength of the man.
It took a strong man to lead the Arabs, for they were a race of strong men, born to the harsh desert with the stones in their bones, the wind in their hair and the never ending sun in their eyes. Hard men all, they had been recruited into the legion, wearing British uniforms, but with Arab headdress and the legion badge, of a Royal crown above two curved scimitars. Their thick belts held a pistol on one side and a curved dagger on the other to augment their rifle or sub-machinegun. Bandoliers of ammunition were strung from each shoulder, the bullets jutting like sharp teeth to complete the appearance of a determined and threatening man. How Glubb had won their hearts is not entirely known, but they worshiped him, and would follow him anywhere.
Once the legion rode exclusively on swift camels, braving the sandstorms and sun to make their ceaseless patrols. Now, with this new war in the desert, some would take to trucks and armored cars, becoming “mechanized” as their British officers called it. They had six locally customized armored cars, with Lewis guns, Boys AT rifles and a Vickers machine gun. While not as colorful as the gilded saddles and colored blankets of the Camel corps, the men still took to wearing the long robes over British kit, and their dark hair flowed in the wind when they were on the move, which prompted the Imperial soldiery to call them “Glubb’s Girls.”
But there was no mistaking these soldiers for ladies when it came to a fight. They had a singular ardor for battle, and could often be heedlessly brave, forsaking any thought of their own personal safety in the interest of honor, and sometimes, vengeance. They were a sharp sword that Glubb had somehow managed to sheath and carry on the hip of the British empire, even though he was not technically in the service of His Majesty’s armed forces any longer. He had resigned his commission to focus on leading the Arab Legion, and that force would later become the nucleus of the Army of Jordan.
It was this force that Fedorov was now planning to meet with at the desert hamlet of Rutbah, well out in the deserts of Anbar Province, Iraq. The place had been a frontier outpost where the Iraqi police once held forth in a stone fort, but it had been quickly seized by Kingcol on its advance to Habbaniyah earlier. That force had reached the airfield there, finding that the enemy had been cleared from the plateau and was fleeing to Fallujah. After linking up with the beleaguered garrison at the airfield compound, “Habforce” had been able to ferry troops across the Euphrates and surround Fallujah, which fell the next day.
In the history Fedorov knew, all this action had occurred during the flood season, which had delayed the advance on Baghdad considerably. Now, happening in the dryer month of March, the British forces were able to make a swift approach to the city, and the rumors of the terrible night on that plateau suffered by the Iraqi troops sent to lay siege to the airfield preceded them. In the real history, it was rumor as much as anything else that had enabled this relatively small force, a few battalions in strength, to topple the fledgling re
gime of Rashid Ali and his Golden Square. This had occurred when an Iraqi outpost was hastily abandoned, and the telephone system was not destroyed as it should have been, allowing the British to listen in over an open line to hear the dispositions and orders being given to the Iraqi troops defending the capitol.
An Arab speaking officer in the intelligence arm of the column had also played out a ruse by speaking over the line that the outpost could not be held, because the British were coming with a massive force of 50 tanks, when in fact they had no more than a few home styled armored cars to support the trucks of lorried infantry. It was this rumor that spread like fire through the suburbs of Baghdad, and allowed the British to unhinge what could have been a stubborn Iraqi defense in this densely populated urban setting.
That captured open line telephone was a perfect example of a Push Point in Fedorov’s research. Some Iraqi corporal in the detachment had simply dropped his telephone receiver on the desk and taken flight at the approach of the British, a small event, pure happenstance, that had enabled the clever British intelligence section in the column to use deception and eavesdropping to topple the Iraqi regime.
This time, however, that incident had not occurred. Instead the awful rumors of flying shadows of death, their wings beating the night airs like dragons, and spewing deadly fire that destroyed all before it—these were enough to do the same work. The Iraqis wanted no quarrel with these demon soldiers that had come upon them in the night, and the result of the terror these stories spread worked much the same result on the history. Rashid Ali and the German Ambassador had fled to Mosul, and the resulting collapse of central authority allowed the British to advance elements of their 10th Indian division from Basra much sooner.
Kingcol returned to Habbaniyah in a matter of days instead of weeks, where it waited for supplies being floated up river from the 10th Indian Division stores. Fedorov did not know that the Brandenburgers had already re-written their raid on the river flotillas, and that those supplies were instead being carried off by the Arab nationalist brigade they had raised, a force loosely affiliated and sometimes led by a nefarious figure named Fawzi al-Qawuqji. The Russian Captain had planned to rendezvous with Kingcol at Rutbah, and brief them on the mission he had in mind for Palmyra, but Kingcol was nowhere to be seen.
Hammer of God (Kirov Series Book 14) Page 14