Grand Alliance (Kirov Series)

by John Schettler

  “The longer we wait, the more time we give the British to regain their balance,” said Rommel. “This is their last division of any consequence.”

  “Yes, but it won’t do us any good to get strung out in the desert again here. Keitel messaged us yesterday to say he is landing the 90th light at Tripoli. Each move we make like this also extends our seaward flank to the enemy. It is being covered by the Ariete Division, but they can only do so much. If you move another twenty or thirty kilometers east, we’ll have to post flak batteries to hold that flank.”

  “Don’t worry about that. Do you honestly think the British are going to come out from behind that escarpment and try to attack us there?”

  “There is always the possibility.”

  “Nonsense!” Rommel was tired of bickering with Streich. The man had been dragging his feet for some days now, since Michili, when he had flatly refused an order to attack that vital British supply depot and airfield for these same reasons. That led Rommel to call him a coward to his face, and Streich had been so infuriated that he tore off the Knight’s Cross he had recently been awarded and demanded an apology or he would throw it at Rommel’s feet. Since then there was little love between the two men, and less cooperation. Rommel had decided to replace the man, but he was here now, and he would have to push him if he wanted to get anything done.

  “Listen, Streich, I am not asking for an opinion here. This is what we are going to do. You have your orders. Are you going to disobey your commanding officer yet again and bellyache about gasoline? That Knight’s Cross around your neck only goes so far. I have one as well, along with the Blue Max. Haven’t you noticed?”

  Streich tightened his jaw, clearly unhappy. “Only too well,” he said sullenly. “Very well, Herr General, I will do as you ask. And when my tanks and vehicles run out of gasoline, we’ll ask the British if they can spare us any!”

  Rommel gave him a wan smile. “Don’t ask politely, Streich, just go and take it from them. Now get moving! And remember, you were given that medal for following my orders and carrying them out successfully, not for disobeying them. I don’t command by committee here. I am Befehlshaber of the Afrika Korps. Understand?”

  The action started the following morning, even as Fedorov began the reconnaissance mission with Kinlan and O’Connor. 8th Panzer Regiment of the 15th Panzer Division led the way, running into a few Morris armored cars and light infantry carriers of the 9th Australian Cav, posted to this flank well away from their division, which was north behind the escarpment. The Aussies fell back, joining the cavalry elements of the 2nd New Zealand that were also there to watch that flank. I/8th Panzers had 27 Panzer IIIH, and 18 lighter Panzer IIF tanks, which was more than enough to outgun the armored cars, and Bir el Khamsa fell that afternoon. The Germans were now about 12 kilometers from Mishiefa air field, screened by the imposing height of hill 748 and some old ruins that were so common in the desert, the crumbled forts and towers of empires long gone.

  Rommel was up to his old habits again, leaving the bulk of his headquarters staff behind and moving forward in a few light Kubelwagons with two or three handpicked officers. He had acquired a big armored British truck which the Germans had taken to calling the Malmut, or ‘Mammoth,’ but he found it too cumbersome during a battle. When an engagement began he was tireless, forsaking food, sleep, and even water to make certain the action was proceeding according to his plan. Learning that Bir el Khamsa had fallen, he was headed in that direction, intending to make it his HQ location for that night.

  Along the way three British Hurricanes swooped down to strafe his column, but his men sustained no casualties and all the vehicles remained in working condition. He reached the small well, which was little more than a cistern tucked away in the desert camelthorn scrub, and a few untended cultivation plots where itinerate tribesmen had once thought to grow something.

  That evening there was still fighting up ahead, and I/8th Panzer managed to get tanks around Hill 230, only to find that a British Machinegun Battalion was there at another small well site called Bir Arnab. It was also learned that the old ruins five kilometers to the southeast at Makhzan el Talat were also occupied by the 28th Maori Infantry Battalion, a tough, determined band that was to become the most decorated battalion in the New Zealand Army before the war was over.

  Hauptmann Hans Kummel had the 1st Company in the 8th Panzer Regiment, and reported back that the ground ahead was strongly held, and there was no light for an attack, and even less fuel. His lead Panzer IIs were down to 30% and the Medium Panzer IIIs were equally dry. He had enough to attack, but thought they should wait until morning, given he had what looked to be two full battalions in front of him now.

  Rommel knew that Kummel was no slouch, nor was the Regimental commander, Oberstleutnant Cramer. When the British decided to stand and fight, the Germans had learned to be a little cautious. The first commander of the 15th Panzer Division, von Prittwitz, also a holder of the Blue Max, had charged off to scout an artillery firing position for the Italians near Tobruk and was killed instantly when a hidden British 2 Pounder anti tank gun put a round right through his chest. If Kummel wanted to wait, then Rommel decided he had better have a look for himself.

  Just after sunset he moved forward to scout the enemy position, satisfying himself that it had indeed been heavily reinforced. His instinct was to continue to jog right, outflanking the defense, but each move like that forced him to leave elements of his division along the extended front, diluting his combat power at the point of that maneuver. To make matters worse, the motorcycle reconnaissance troops of 200th Kradschutzen from 15th Panzer Division had reported back that the hill he had hoped to reach the following day was now being strongly occupied by what looked to be a full brigade of infantry.

  “A brigade?” he asked the Leutnant reporting. “Are you certain your eyes are not playing tricks? Where would the British get yet another brigade to throw on the line?”

  “These did not appear to be British troops, Herr General. They looked to be Poles from the unit markings and flags we observed.”

  “Poles?” Rommel shook his head. “Didn’t they get enough back in ’39? Very well, you may return to your battalion. But I want that position scouted again at dawn. Move out before sunrise.”

  The unit was, in fact, the Carpathian Infantry Brigade, which was Wavell’s last reserve. It had been moving up from the vicinity of Mersa Matruh, and had reached the scene at a most opportune time, for the report gave Rommel pause and he decided to wait until morning before pressing the attack further.

  Streich will be happy, he thought. He can siphon some petrol from his flack units and dust off his tank tracks. Then he set about to see how much of his division was within arm’s reach. He would collect what he could and plan his attack for the following morning. It would be a long and sleepless night, and Rommel was upset that things were not going as he had planned. Somehow the British had managed to read his intentions and stolidly move blocking forces into position to frustrate him.

  I should go right around them, he thought, but the more he circulated among his troops, the more he came to hear the same complaint. They were running low on fuel. The movement east from the Egyptian border had already taken them nearly a hundred kilometers on fuel tanks that weren’t topped off when they started. The Panzer III Medium tanks that constituted his primary striking force for maneuver had a range of about 165 kilometers, and now they needed fuel. Streich had been correct, as much as Rommel hated to admit that. So he issued orders that all non-essential vehicles should be cannibalized for fuel to support the combat elements, and he would take the night to catch his breath and prepare a renewed offensive for the following morning.

  “Where is that Hungarian?” Rommel looked over his shoulder, rattling the old map he had been brooding over.

  “You mean the Sonderkommando?”

  “I want him to have a look south and east tonight to see where the enemy flank is. The British cannot have very much more to throw a
t us. Something tells me this is the end for them. This Hungarian has good desert eyes, does he not? Send for him at once.”

  * * *

  The man with good desert eyes was the enigmatic figure of Hauptmann László Almásy, commander of an elite unit of long range scouts operating with Rommel’s force, the Sonderkommando. Almásy knew these deserts well, and had explored them before the war when he launched several expeditions with other British explorers to search for a legendary lost Oasis in the Libyan desert called Zerzura. The place was rumored to be a fertile, hidden valley, accessible only through a hidden wadi that ran between two mountains. There it had been reported that strange men held forth, tall, blue eyed and with very unusual speech and weapons. One legend held that they were Crusading knights who had become lost in the desert on the way to Jerusalem, and founded a city of bleached white stone that ran with fresh water from hidden springs and wells, the fabled land of Zerzura.

  Almásy had searched for it in 1932 and the spring of 1933, and had also crossed the Great Sand Sea, and explored the other well known oasis sites like Kufra, Bayhira, Giarabub and Siwa. He was the Deutsche Afrika Korps’ answer and foil to men like Popski and the British Long Range Desert Group, and had actually worked with many of the men now serving in those units before the war. He met and traveled with Godfrey Jones Penderel, a WWI ace who was presently flying reconnaissance with No. 201 Group R.A.F., and Sir Patrick Clayton, who became the official surveyor of the Libyan Desert and later joined the L.R.D.G.

  Almásy did not know it at the time, but at that very moment, Major Clayton was out with T Patrol with 30 men and 11 trucks of the L.R.D.G., in a planned operation against the Italian Held Kufra Oasis. His small band would be spotted by an Italian airplane, and soon engaged by a much larger force of the Italian Auto Saharan Company, and Clayton would be wounded and captured that very morning.

  The intrepid Hungarian arrived at Rommel’s command tent just after midnight, eager to get new orders directly from the General.

  “Here,” said Rommel, fingering his map. “The Carpathian Brigade was seen in this area. I want you to get over there tonight and have a good look around. But take your time. Move south with the other Oasis Patrols, and see what you find. Note the condition of the ground. Find the enemy flank, and then find me a way to move east around their left shoulder. I’m told you’re a man of some experience in these deserts. You should know what to do.”

  Hauptmann Almásy saluted, assuring Rommel he would return before dawn, and that he had every confidence that he could find an easy way around the enemy flank.

  It was the last thing he ever said that he thought he could be sure of, for this would not be another simple night reconnaissance for his Sonderkommando. The border zone he was about to scout now was the edge of oblivion, and the enemy looming like a vast shadow on that frontier were apparitions from another world.

  Chapter 14

  The desert seemed endless to Lieutenant Reeves of the 12th Royal Lancers. He had been here twelve months, and still could not grasp the enormity of all the desolation around him. There was nothing in the desert, except the occasional camelthorn, weathered limestone, sandy salt marshes, camel dung and the inevitable hordes of black flies. It was no place for any sane man to be, and even less so now, with this impossible news that had just been laid on all the battalion commanders.

  Insane… This was the way he felt inside now, empty, desolate, thunderstruck to the point of madness. The meeting he had just had with Brigadier Kinlan had left him slack jawed with disbelief. All the other battalion commanders had reacted the very same way, amazed and perplexed with what the General was telling them.

  Something had happened when the Russians attacked them, some unaccountable exotic effects of the nuclear detonation. That was the way he had tried to explain it. There was blast, radiation, electromagnetic pulse—all three well known and guarded against. But this was something altogether different. This was an effect on time itself, the fourth dimension. The detonation caused displacement in time for a limited quantity of mass within the effect radius.

  Displacement in time!

  He shook his head, still dazed with the news, hearing Kinlan’s words like an echo in his mind. “… It’s happened to the Russians themselves, who knows how, but that’s how they lost that battlecruiser in the Norwegian Sea. We all heard about the suspected accident there—a nuclear accident. We all knew they lost that Oscar class sub, and the word was that Kirov went down with it, but that was not so. The damn ship turned up in the Pacific a month later. Well, here’s some more news for you. This Russian Marine detachment Reeves collared with that KA-40 was commanded by the Captain of that very same ship! He was the one who put this explanation forward. I thought it was a load of rubbish just like you must now, but the evidence has been mounting with each passing hour, and it leads to only one conclusion. Sultan Apache, the odd differences in moon phase and star data, the loss of all satellite and comm-links—it’s all adding up to only one thing—time displacement. It’s happened to us, gentlemen, and from everything we’ve been able to piece together at Brigade HQ, we’ve been blown clean out of the 21st Century! We figure the date and time now is the 2nd of February… in the year 1941!”

  That had been greeted by blank stares, an uncomfortable shift in posture from the men assembled, a smile from others who thought Kinlan was just trying to lighten the mood before the brigade set out on what was likely to be its last road march. But it was no joke.

  General Kinlan knew he had to tell the men something before they moved north with the prospect of battle before them. Yet he could not tell them everything, just as the Russian Captain had urged. Some would have to know, but not to the whole rank and file. They would learn just as the crew of that ship learned the hard truth. In the end he decided to limit the news to his senior officers. He had to place faith in their training and discipline, and hope for the best. He made an all points announcement stating they had been informed of enemy activity ahead, a large unidentified force attempting to block their move north. He said they were using antiquated equipment, but that there was a lot of it, tanks, artillery and anti-tank guns. “Who knows,” he concluded, “maybe it’s Rommel and his Afrika Korps.”

  He had tried to be a bit light hearted about it, saying they had also encountered Russians, but determined them to be no threat. They were apparently traveling with British officers, and should be treated as friendly. Then his voice became more serious and he related the disturbing news concerning Sultan Apache, saying it was a matter they were still looking into. That got quite a few men scratching their heads, but they gave it little mind and buckled down for action as any good soldiers would. Reeves heard the announcement over his comm-link command set radio, as did every man in his unit. He knew much more—the full briefing from Kinlan still clawing at him within, but he could not be forthcoming with the men just yet. He had been handed the job of going out to obtain the final evidence on all this.

  “If any of this is true,” Kinlan had told him, “then you should run into the German Army out there somewhere. Take your battalion north and scout well ahead of the main column. I want to know what we’re looking at here, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. I don’t want photographs or thermal imaging data, I want flesh and blood men, and the cold hard steel of a vehicle. You’re the best in the business, Reeves. Get this done…”

  “How you figure that?” said Sergeant Williams, a voice suddenly filling the void within him and bringing Reeves back to this impossible here and now. “The whole place gone?”

  “What? You mean Sultan Apache? The Russkies must have hit it again,” Reeves answered sullenly. It was the only thing he could think of to explain the situation.

  “The General said there was no sign of another attack. You heard it—they went over the site and detected no radiation. No blast damage either.”

  “Sounds loony to me,” said Reeves. “Maybe he got his grid coordinates wrong. General Kinlan is no fool, mind you, but something
just doesn’t add up here. So that’s where we come in. When brigade wants information, who do they call? 12th Royal Lancers, that’s who. So tighten your chin straps, boyo, and be sharp.”

  “Yeah? Well that bit about keeping our eyes peeled for enemy ground troops was rich. Keep a look out for Rommel and the Germans, eh? And we advance in battle order instead of column of march? It certainly sounds like the General knows something he hasn’t told us yet.”

  “Oh, he told us alright,” said Reeves. “Battalion officers were briefed, but none of that falls on you, Sergeant. You just settle affairs here on squad level. We’re 12th Royals and were out on point. I’ll want the Scimitars up front this time, three squadrons in battle order, and we’ll follow with the Dragons in the center. Pass the word. I want thermals and night opticals at all times. Report any contact to me directly.”

  Four hours later Reeves got his first report, and from a bemused Sergeant in 2nd Squadron who sighted light vehicles ahead. They had encountered a desert patrol of some kind, and Reeves ordered his men to move up in their Scimitars and see about it. What they saw soon boggled their eyes, and quashed the rounds of humorous comments about General Kinlan’s briefing. The men had a good long laugh as they set out before dawn, but just before sunrise the laughter stopped, drowned out by incoming tracer rounds from heavy machineguns.

  As was so often the case in desert war, the recon elements of the two opposing sides were the first to tangle with one another. Reeves listened to the chatter between his units on his headset, and soon learned that 3rd Squadron on point had also run into something. When his men came under fire he gave the order to return in kind, thinking they had run across groups of irregular militias riding about in SUVs and pickup trucks, out to raise havoc and then disappear into the desert again. But here? What would they be doing so far south of the coast? Then he got news that really raised an eyebrow, and reminded him that there were no SUVs if this was 1941. Lieutenant Wright radioed in from the left flank in 2nd Squadron and said he had prisoners.