When the big KA-40 came thumping out of the skies to the west, there was quite a stirring at Rutbah among the men of Glubb Pasha’s Arab Legion. They were accustomed to flying machines by now, though they had never seen one like this. They shirked from the sound and billowing dust kicked up by the twin rotors, but otherwise stood by their horses and vehicles, watching the scene with great interest and curiosity. What was this new war machine the British were using?
Fedorov was out with Popski, looking to find Brigadier Kingstone, but soon learning he was nowhere near. It was Glubb Pasha that held sway at Rutbah that day, for he and a detachment of his Arab Legion had been scouting down the long desert road from Habbaniyah as an advance guard. He came out, dressed in a great coat, for the desert chill was still on the land that morning. Fedorov saw a short man, his khaki coat fastened with five gold buttons and a flash of color over his breast pocket where his medals and decorations rode. He wore the traditional Middle Eastern headdress known as the Keffiyeh, tied off with a heavy twisted cord of silk that was called an Aqal. His English boots reflected his roots, but he had clearly blossomed to Arab ways in that headdress,
Popski had heard of the man, and thought him to be a confederate at heart—another wild desert scout and warrior like himself. “Well met,” he said. “Vladimir Peniakoff, but most chaps call me Popski—a little easier on the tongue. This here is Captain Fedorov, Russian Navy, and he’ll command that lot over there.”
He pointed to the helo where the marines were filing out to stretch their legs, as the ride had them bunched up tightly to get as many men aboard as possible. The helo might normally be full with sixteen men, but they had managed to squeeze in twenty, with weapons stowed in the exterior compartments or slung under the helo where the weapons pods and torpedoes might ride on a naval mission. The Big Blue Pig continued to serve well, fresh from the maintenance bays of Kirov’s fantail.
“Quite an aircraft,” said Glubb, as interested in the helo as any of his men were. Now they gathered round, eyeing the Marines with great curiosity, noting the assault rifles they carried with much interest.
“Something very new,” said Fedorov in English.
“He’s Russian thru and thru,” Popski explained, “but he’ll manage a little English at times. I’m signed on here as desert guide and interpreter, and I’ve even commanded that group there in battle once or twice. Fine good soldiers, every last one of them.”
“Glad to hear it,” said Glubb with that impish smile. “ We can use all the help we can get.”
“That helicontraption will be heading out soon to make another supply run. They’ll be bringing in some canisters of fuel and ammunition.”
The helo had already landed here, before Glubb arrived, with reserve aviation fuel, munitions and food. Then it took off to fetch Popski and the Marines, returning now for the briefing before they set out for their objective.
“We had hoped to meet up with Brigadier Kingstone here,” said Popski.
“He’ll be delayed,” Glubb returned. “In fact, the whole column is still gathering at Habbaniyah. It seems there was some trouble with their supplies from Basra. They were attacked on the river, and never got through.”
“Iraqis? Then they’re still fighting?”
“No, I think they’ve had quite enough of us. These were men from the Arab Brigade, insurgent raiders with little love of the British empire, and anything affiliated with it. They’ve been vexing us for years now, off and on. Berbers have a mind of their own, and take to pillaging anything that isn’t nailed down or well guarded.”
“Oh? We thought you had them all under your thumb, Pasha.”
“Not bloody likely,” Glubb smiled. “My men are among the very few in country that have stood by us here. Most every other Arab tribe thinks the British are finished. They thought as much as soon as Rashid Ali had the cheek to go and set up his Golden Square, but we’ve seen him off. He may be on his way to Mosul, unless he failed to get up north that way before my men cut the rail line. Otherwise he’ll probably head for Persia. As for the tribes, they aren’t going anywhere, and most think the British are finished here. They halfway expect the German army to come marching in at any moment.”
Popski translated all of this for Fedorov, who immediately asked a question.
“The Captain asks if you have seen any sign of German troops here yet.”
“Not outwardly, but they’re here. There were upwards of five or six thousand German nationals in country when all this business started. A good number of those were fifth columnists, to be sure. This little raid on the supply flotilla was very likely their doing. It was clear from the reports I had, that the Arab Brigade had help. Some say they were led by German officers.”
“The Brandenburg commandos,” Fedorov said to Popski. He knew they were here, the first storm crows of the German army, seeking to exploit the volatility inherent in the situation and harass the British as best they could.
“Brandenburg?” Glubb had not heard the name. “Well they’re here alright, no matter what they’re called. There are air units also operating from Mosul and Baquba, though they’ve abandoned the field at Baquba and redeployed north. But from Mosul its only 180 miles to the Euphrates, and a little over 300 to Palmyra where we’re headed next. You can be sure they won’t forget us. Those Bf-110s are rather nasty. I have one report that a couple may even be operating from the airfield at Palmyra now.”
“We’ll see what we can do about that,” said Fedorov when Popski translated. “How long before King Column might return here?”
“That’s anyone’s guess,” said Glubb.” Fawzi and the Bedouins have been nipping at the heels of the column throughout the mission. We nearly got him in a good fight three days ago, but he slipped away. And Fawzi or no, the Bedouins are always a problem. Anything we leave here will have to be well guarded. Otherwise they’ll slip in at night and steal the whole lot. Well now… You can set your men up over there for the night. I’ve a spot of tea on the boil in the fort if you’d care to come along.”
Fedorov nodded appreciatively, then gave orders to Troyak in Russian to get the Marines sorted out. Glubb’s troopers looked from him, to Troyak and to any other man who spoke, listening to the harsh guttural tones of the Russian language, their curiosity never ending. A few seemed like they wanted to parley with the Marines, eager to get a closer look at their unusual rifles and other weapons.
They walked towards the fort now, where there was a room with table and chairs, and sat down in the cool shadows. Fedorov took some time to explain the mission he had in mind, and what he expected to accomplish at Palmyra.
“You’re going to fly there… in that aircraft?” asked Glubb.
“That we are,” said Popski.
“What about those German fighters?”
“We’ll slip in at night and get there before they know anything.”
“And then you’re going to seize the chateau? With twenty men?” He was referring to the castle of Fakhr-al-Din al Manni, built by a Druz prince in the15th century, which the French simply called ‘the chateau.’
“We’ll take it in a flash.” Popski folded his arms, confident with what he had already seen of Troyak’s Marines.
“There’s Foreign Legion at Palmyra. Tough men, and block houses round that airfield.”
“Take a closer look at the lads out there,” said Popski. “We’ll handle ourselves. It’s the fortress we want. King Column can take the airfield. All we do is lay down fire so the enemy can’t use the field for operations or resupply.”
“You know that fort is on a high hill—very steep, and surrounded by a deep gully moat. There’s only a single bridge over that, beneath high stone towers.”
“We won’t be taking the bridge, or even bothering to ring the bell at the gate. We plan to plop right down on top of them, or so the Captain here tells me. Once we get the fort, then we’ll turn our mortars on that garrison and airfield and give them a little misery. It will be nice to know tha
t you chaps are coming along soon. This bit about Kingstone’s column still held up at Habbaniyah has set back the timetable, but we go tomorrow in any case, as soon as that bird out there returns with more supplies.”
Glubb Pasha took all this in, raising a sandy eyebrow, thinking. “Let’s hope Brigadier Kingstone gets his supplies and isn’t delayed. He was none too happy about these new orders to withdraw to Habbaniyah, and I dare say he won’t be happy to learn he’s got a new mission to Palmyra. It was a long haul across the desert from the shores of the Med all the way to the Euphrates. His was the first military force to pull that off since Alexander the Great. There was a lot of looting in Baghdad after the Golden Square took flight. I’ve heard the Foreign office was none too happy about it, and they’ll be less happy to see Kingstone pulling his troops out so suddenly. You realize this will tip our hand that Palmyra is King Column’s next target. That’s the most strategic town in the eastern desert. What if the French send in reinforcements?”
Writing new history always has its risks, thought Fedorov, but he said nothing more.
Chapter 17
Palmyra had been an important stop on the long caravan routes to Persia and beyond for many centuries. Dating to the second millennium BC, it was reputed to have been built by King Solomon as a fortress outpost. Centuries later the Romans came, with Marc Antony raiding the place in 41 BC until it eventually became just another pearl on the necklace of conquests made by Rome. Yet its strategic position between the east and west saw its merchants thrive, controlling ships in the Mediterranean, and pulling goods from the Silk Road and markets in India. Roman Legions were billeted there under Diocletian, and the site was walled off by the Emperor Justinian, making the place a sturdy fortress town.
In modern times it came to be known as “The Bride of the Desert.” The old Roman ruins still remain, like the elegant Corinthian style colonnaded portico at the temple of Ba’al, dedicated to the storm god who might bring much needed rain to the parched desert around the settlement. There the litany of deities worshiped were inscribed on the walls… “for Bel and Baal Shamin, and for Aglibol, and for Malakbel, and for Astarte, and for Nemesis, and for Arsu, and for Abgal, the good and rewarding gods ..…”
It was perhaps Rome’s appetite for exotic goods from the east that kept the city a thriving place, where spices, silk, ebony, and even slaves were traded in the town. Monumental arches, long columns, elegant tetrapylons, and the remnant of the old Roman aqueduct still remain on the well preserved site, even though the Romans themselves destroyed the place when Queen Zenobia, a descendant of Cleopatra, rebelled and thought to break away from the empire. After that it became a barracks and fortified camp for the legion of Diocletian, and the armies of the Sassanids, Muslims, Mamlukes, and eventually the Mongols all swept over the site as the centuries passed, each leaving some remains in the ruins.
By 1941 the desire for exotic goods from the east had been distilled down to one primary thing—oil. The city sat right astride the long underground pipelines that carried the oil from Kirkuk, through Homs, to Tripoli and Banias on the Mediterranean coast. All along that route the British had set up pumping stations to maintain the flow of that oil, labeled T1 through T4 on the “Tripoli” pipeline route. So now the armies of France and Great Britain would meet and struggle there, and men from a far distant future would watch from atop the high volcanic cone, crowned by the old stone fortress of Fakhr-al-Din.
At this time, Palmyra was a small settlement, graced by shady groves of palm trees. Fedorov was excited for a chance to see the ruins, which sat like the bleached skeletal bones of an old fallen empire. The history here was written in the sandstone, layered deep, and carved into the land over long millennia. Now the soldiers of another fading empire would come to do battle there beyond the ancient tomb sites, and remnants of the high stone walls of the old city. The coming of Troyak and his squads of Marines would be the first time the ancient site would hear the sound of Russian made assault rifles, but it would not be the last. Rebels clashed with the Syrian government in the years before Kirov first went to sea, and the blight of war would again leave its mark on the old ruins, which were also looted to provide artifacts for wealthy collectors when order broke down in Syria.
Now the ancient gods and goddesses would stir fitfully in the ruins of their temples. There slept Allat, the goddess of the underworld, and Nebo, the Mesopotamian god of oracles, who would hear again the din and rattle of war echoing through the weathered stone columns of Aswan granite. The Babylonians called him the Son of Marduke, Lord of Heaven and the scribe of the “Table of Destiny.” Today he would make a new entry in his ledger of fate, when the Russian Marines came thumping in from the south, emerging from the long shadowy ridges of Mount Atbar and Jabal al Khan, the ‘hill of the King.’
The KA-40 came in low, beneath the crests of hills rising over 500 meters just west of the palm groves. The chateau was situated on a high solitary hill overlooking the town, triangular in shape, with the longest wall facing west on the angle of approach. Surprise was complete, until the roar of the helo startled the observation teams settling in to sleep in the stony chambers beneath the towers. One man was bold enough to run up the stairs to the upper level, emerging to see a dark, shuddering shadow hovering in the sky. He had a brief moment of shock and awe before a sniper rifle in the hands of a Russian Marine cut him down.
Now the long ropes descended from the helo, and one by one the Marines slid down onto the hard stone roof of the fortress. Troyak led one team down the long west facing wall, seizing two towers there and leaving small two man teams to guard the ramparts. Zykov took another squad along the first of the two east facing walls, until he reached a position right above the single stone bridge that led to the gate. He fixed an assault rope to the upper wall and rappelled down to take the main gate from above, while other Marines worked their way down the stone stairways and into hidden chambers within the heart of the fortress. It was just as Popski had told Glubb Pasha, they had simply plopped down from above and taken the entire fortress by storm.
They found three other men from the garrison there, one Belgian and the others a pair of sharp eyed Bedouin tribesmen, but did not kill them. Fedorov questioned the men through Popski, who could manage both French and Arabic. He learned that the units assigned to the garrison here were much as the history recorded, two companies of the French Foreign Legion, and a single Bedu Desert Company.
“What about Fawsi al Qawuqji?” Popski pressed them. “Are he and his men nearby?”
At this the captives pleaded their ignorance, and Fedorov could see that they really knew very little.
“And the Germans? Do they have planes on that airfield?”
They learned what Fedorov already seemed to know, that the leading planes to arrive here were from Zerstorergeschwader 76, which had been using the base as a transit stop en route to bases in northern Iraq.
“Two planes,” said the Belgian. “Only two.” He held up two fingers, his other hand over his heart to profess his oath of truth in what he was saying, eyes wide with fear.
“Two planes,” said Fedorov to Troyak. “They’ll be on the ground there now, so get your mortar teams in action right away. I’m afraid we’re going to have to wake up the rest of the French garrison, if the helo hasn’t already done that.”
“Kolnov,” Troyak barked. “Set up one 82 on the south tower, the other to the north. Use your map and register that fire as we trained.”
Fedorov had been able to give them a detailed map of Palmyra, but they could clearly see the airbase there between the hill and the town itself. In later years after the war, another airfield would be built well east of the town, but in 1941 it was just above the Roman ruins, over watched by the high Chateau. They could simply register the fire right on the field, and easily shut it down. The prisoners were taken to a chamber below the main courtyard, and the KA-40 sent down the last of the supply and weapons canisters in heavy canvass satchels. Then the pilot sal
uted, and the dark noisome mass of the helo began to lift away, swooping down into the valley behind the high volcanic hill, and off to the north, all running lights dark.
There was no place big enough to land the helo on the fortress, and so it had been decided to move it to the gnarled hills to the north, where it could set down at elevation, unseen in a furrowed gorge. The advantage of having Google satellite maps of the whole region, and detailed navigation pilotage charts made the selection of an appropriate LZ for the helo easy enough. It would be out of sight and harm’s way, but conveniently at hand should they need its minigun and missile fire support.
Ten minutes later the new masters of the Castle of Fakhr-al-Din began to put well aimed 82mm mortar fire down on the airfield, and there was a bright explosion and fire there when they hit one of the twin engine He-111 bombers that had been left their when their tires were damaged on landing earlier.
They soon heard the distant call of a bugle as the French Foreign Legion was called to arms. Troyak was on a high tower, surveying the mortar fire, and he peered through his hand held night vision field glasses, watching the scene. There he saw the movement of men on the ground, and they could hear the sound of trucks. Soon they saw several truckloads of infantry arriving at the edge of the town and spreading out in the palm groves near the ruins.
“They know they have uninvited visitors,” said Troyak. “It looks to be two platoons at this point, about 40 or 50 men. They’ll look us over first to try and determine who we are, and in what strength, but I doubt if they’ll be foolish enough to try and attack this fort tonight.”
Hammer of God (Kirov Series Book 14) Page 15