“More bloody Russians?” Reeves inquired.
“No sir… well Lieutenant… It’s bloody Germans, just like Kinlan said! I have five men here, all decked out in old style German army uniforms. I interrogated the lot, but haven’t the foggiest. Sprechen sie Deutsch?”
“Germans? Somebody playing army out here again?”
“They had a Kubelwagon, right out of the museum, and a nasty 50 Caliber MG on it. I had to use the main autocannon, and that was that. The rest gave us the hands up soon after, but one vehicle took off north and slipped away.”
“Very well,” said Reeves, wondering how he was going to keep this cat in the bag. “Stick them in one of the support vehicles, and keep moving. Secure that long ridge line up ahead and wait there. I’ll be up to have a look. Reeves out.”
A Kubelwagon with a 50-cal? That was a new spin. He’d bet get one of those back to Kinlan. They were accustomed to Ford pickup trucks with old ZSU 23’s mounted in the back, but this was a first. He reported, surprised by Kinlan’s subsequent order to stop at Ridge 699 and wait for the Mercian Battalion to come up. Then he was to jog left, set up all his Squadrons in attack echelon, and wait for the Highlanders to come up on his right. The General was playing it by the book. He was deploying the whole damn brigade in battle formation! It was as if he thought we were about to tangle with a full enemy division out there somewhere.
They were about to do exactly that…
* * *
Hauptmann László Almásy crested the barren desert hill that morning, and he was late. Almásy had been scouting on the extreme southern right flank of Rommel’s advance, with his Sonderkommando unit comprised if 12 scout cars and a few squads of light infantry. Another patrol, the 3rd Oasis Group, had been reconnoitering near an ancient tomb site near Gabr el Shubaki when they thought they saw the telltale signs of vehicles approaching from the south. Almásy heard about it, and one look at his map told him he could scout the area well from the top of this hill, number 728, about ten kilometers due east of the tomb. He would be late reporting back to Rommel, but at least he would have the very latest information in hand when he did. He reached the hill he had in mind just before dawn, in spite of the fact that his scout cars were also very low on fuel, and he wondered if he would have enough to get back north.
So it was that the famous Hungarian explorer would come to make a new discovery that morning, and see a strange group of men, tall, strangely attired, and with weapons the like of which no man alive in his world had ever known. The sun rose, painting the stark desert terrain in a rosy hue, and the light soon illuminated the whole valley floor to the south. To his amazement, there, stretching for many kilometers in a long dark column, was a large mechanized force. He could clearly make out eight wheeled armored cars in the vanguard, and behind them he could see tanks. There were other odd looking vehicles, topped with strange metal discs spinning fitfully, and whiskery antennae waving in the morning breeze as the column slowly came to a halt.
What he had seen was actually Reeves 12th Royal Lancers, the eight wheeled Dragons and a line of Scimitars in 2nd Squadron that was now following. The Scimitar was a vehicle that bore some resemblance to what Almásy would conceive of as a tank of this era. Even the 30mm RARDEN cannon looked to be about the size and scale of a typical 2 Pounder. Had he seen a Challenger II, his mind might be on other things now, but as it stood, the presence of this force was enough to get him moving again.
Good god, he thought. What unit was this? It looked to be at least another full battalion in strength, and he could already begin to hear the rattle of the tanks rolling over the cold desert ground. I have to get word of this to Rommel!
“Hans!” he rasped. “Get to the nearest radio. No time to get back there. Tell Rommel we have visitors! That looks to be a battalion of British armor out there, and it’s heading north, right on our exposed right flank!”
László Almásy had never really found the lost realm of Zerzura, but he had just discovered something that was about to change the entire history of the Second World War. And his fate, in the maelstrom that was now emerging from the vermillion shadows of a distant ridge, would be the least of things to be taken by the storm.
* * *
Rommel reacted to the news with great surprise. A British armor battalion? Behind him? Yet the evidence was plain for him to see. The lone scout car from a small oasis patrol had come barreling in on its last legs just moments ago. The back end of the vehicle was shot to pieces by what looked to be a round in the caliber of a twenty to thirty millimeter flak gun. It might have been exactly that, he thought. The British had been throwing together small ad hoc columns, like a German kampfgruppe might be formed. They would scrape together whatever they could find, trucks, stray tanks, a few flak guns, or a single towed artillery piece.
They must have run into one of the British Jock Columns, he thought, smiling. His signalmen had picked up the phrase on radio intercepts, though he did not yet know where the handle came from. The men of the Oasis patrol were wide eyed with reports of new, fast moving British tanks that could engage from very long ranges and seemed to have eyes in every direction.
“Their optics must be superb,” one man had reported. “They hit us from well over two kilometers—and well before dawn! The moon was down and it was still very dark. We lost three vehicles in the first minute, and I was only lucky to have escaped because I was at the back of the column and had the good sense to get here with this report!”
Almásy’s report had come in soon after, a battalion sized force of tanks and armored cars was on his deep right flank. How could this have happened without him knowing about it earlier? That damn sand storm, he muttered inwardly. It had prevented him from getting airborne in the Storch to make certain he would not suffer a surprise like this. Thank god I had the foresight to send that Hungarian out last night. It seemed his enemy had more forces at his disposal than Berlin claimed. The German spy network in Cairo had informed him of the arrival of the 2nd New Zealand Division, but not this other formation. Angry at himself as much as anything else, he stormed out, leaving his adjutant standing there with two staff officers. They had seen him do this many times, and knew the General was going off to war, and might not be found again for hours.
Yet Rommel was still not entirely convinced this could be much of a threat. He knew Almásy was a reliable man, a skilled observer, and one who knew these deserts like the back of his hand, but he wanted to see for himself. “Tanks” was a fairly broad category these days. He had Panzers labeled one thru four in his own division, and the British had things from the light Mark VI machine gun tankettes, to the heavy Matilda infantry support tanks. So he leapt into a nearby Kubelwagon, collaring a driver, and sped off towards the highest ground he could find, the hills above the ruined tomb southeast of Bir el Khamsa. From that height he should be able to see anything moving on the desert to the south, particularly any sizable force, which should be kicking up a lot of dust by now.
When he got there, his surprise was complete. Almásy was correct! This was a fast, mechanized force, and he could clearly see armor just behind the leading fan of armored cars, which looked to be something new as far as he could tell through his field glasses. The mutter of small arms fire and the distant rattle of a machine gun told him this force was still sweeping through the thin cordon of desert patrols, small platoons of his oasis groups that had been screening this sector.
“Damn!” he swore aloud. “This Wavell has more guts than I realized. Turnabout is fair play, or so it seems. This must be all the armor he could scrape together, and he’s sent it in a wide enveloping maneuver, just as I would have done. He’s beaten me to the punch!”
His spies had also told him that the British 7th Armored Division, the force that had been the undoing of the Italians a month earlier, was also refitting near Alexandria. Could they be ready for battle so soon? Was this the 7th Armored, appearing like a mad Jinn on his flank just as his battalions were moving into the dawn a
ttack he had ordered? Now he would have to call off that attack and quickly disengage. Cursing, he rushed back down the hill to the vehicles waiting below, and was quickly on the radio.
“Streich! Never mind the attack! Get your tanks south of Bir el Khamsa, and form as many Kampfgruppen as you can. We have uninvited guests for breakfast!”
Streich was incensed. His men had just fought a hot action to storm the 230 meter hill overshadowing Bir Arnab, Now he was being ordered to give it back to the enemy, disengage, and regroup 15 to 20 kilometers to the south, a maneuver he had not factored into his careful fuel rations. He bawled this over the radio until Rommel cursed at him and told him to be silent and do what he had ordered. Then he acted, with skill and determination in spite of his rising anger.
This headstrong General already had the entire Afrika Korps strung out for nearly a hundred kilometers from Sollum to Bir el Khamsa. In places that long front was being screened by small detachments of flak batteries, their gasoline plundered to feed the hungry maneuver elements. Meanwhile, without their defensive AA umbrella, the troops were being increasingly harassed by enemy aircraft. The British seemed to sense that if they were to lose this battle, Egypt might ride in the balance. They were throwing everything they had at Rommel now, beating troops to quarter from every corner of their empire. They had even managed to field this Carpathian infantry that appeared so suddenly at dusk the previous evening.
Orders were one thing, but disengaging from a forward action and re-directing that effort 180 degrees to a new axis was no small matter. The Germans were disciplined, skilled troops, and managed to extricate their valuable tank battalions and get them headed south. Rommel had the 8th Machinegun battalion in reserve, which would form the nucleus of one Kampfgruppe. Streich put together another with I/5 Panzer Battalion supported by the division reconnaissance unit. A third kampfgruppe was formed with the Division Pioneer battalion and II/5 Panzer. There was plenty of artillery around to support all three while still keeping suppressive fire on the British position.
“Let them think we’re reorganizing for another attack,” Streich told his subordinates. We’ll finish off this British unit to our south first, and be back by noon to do just that—assuming I have any gasoline to get here! Then we’ll finish the job with this New Zealand Division.”
Confidence was a good thing in a commanding officer, but Streich was wrong, and by noon that day the situation would look a good deal different than anything he could imagine.
Chapter 15
Rommel was not the only man up on a hill top that morning with a good pair of field glasses. Lieutenant Reeves had come forward to look over the scene of the night engagement, surprised to see what looked to be authentic German Kubelwagons from WWII. They even had a mud slurry finish and light markings in typical German insignia. The German cross was very evident. Someone could have dug one of these old warriors up in this desert, he thought. Lord knows there’s a good many old wrecks from the war still out here. But this was not an old, rusting hulk. It looked to be in perfect working order, except for the holes his Scimitars had blown through it with their 30mm cannons. Otherwise it might be described as being in mint condition, something that would be very rare in 2021.
But it wasn’t 2021, or so he had been told. It was supposed to be 1941, and in that year the presence and condition of this vehicle would make perfect sense—not to mention the five German soldiers he had stowed away in an enclosed FV432! German soldiers, not Libyans, not Egyptians, not Berbers… Kinlan had sent him out here to look for the hard evidence of what this Russian Captain had been telling them, and damn if he didn’t have the first bit in hand at this very moment.
So he went up to the ridge he had ordered his Scimitars to wait behind, and took a good long look to scout the position with human eyes. He did not like what he was seeing. There was a strong defensive position forming, with one flank anchored by what looked to be a line of hastily emplaced guns. Their profile was quite prominent, but he could see camo netting going up and troops digging in to create some semblance of cover for the heavy guns. What was even more disturbing was the nagging thought that refused to silence itself now. The barrels on those guns were leveled for close in action, not elevated as artillery might be. Those were anti-tank guns, and for all the world they looked like…. German 88s! They were being screened with infantry digging in to good positions on stony ground. It was not a position he would approach without heavy tank support or artillery preparation. The skin on his Dragons and Scimitars was not thick enough, even with armor module additions, to reliably stop a round from an 88.
Lord almighty, he thought. Am I actually seeing this? Everything I’ve seen since I picked up that Popski fellow is evidence that all points in the same direction. I haven’t seen a single thing out here that I could reliably date to the 21st Century. Looks like we’ve really done what this Russian Captain said, and slipped right down the rabbit hole! And if those are 88s we’re going to need tanks up here, and soon.
* * *
The sun washed over the Panzer III tanks of the 1st Battalion, 5th Panzer Regiment where they waited in concealed positions beyond a low rise. When they arrived in Libya the vehicles had been painted the deep charcoal grey of Panzer Grau in color, but they had been quickly repainted in the light yellow orange and tan hues of Gelbbraun, which would make them very difficult to see in the ruddy early morning sun. They still bore the runic symbol that had identified them when serving with the 3rd Panzer Division—new clothes, but an old heritage in this strange new battlescape unlike any other in the war. The armored cars of the 3rd Recon Battalion had launched into action too soon off the docks at Tripoli, and had to settle for mud slurry to cover their darker paint scheme so they could blend in on the sere grey and sallow tan terrain.
These were the first available troops to arrive at the line Rommel had selected to greet the incoming British attack. As 15th Panzer had borne the brunt of the fighting in his attempted envelopment of Bir Arnab the previous day, it would fall to Streich and the 5th Light to answer the call this day. The division was designated “light” for a good reason. While it had two Panzer battalions as any other Panzer Division might, it was light on infantry. Instead of two Panzergrenadier regiments of three battalions each, it had only one, designated the 200th Schutzen Regiment, with the 2nd and 8th Machinegun Battalions. It also had a pioneer battalion in reserve, and Rommel had bolstered it by assigning a number of his 88mm dual purpose flak batteries, adopting a defensive posture that he would make famous in one telling of this war.
German doctrine differed markedly from British tactics when it came to armored warfare. The Germans seemed to master the art of combined arms and maneuver almost instinctively, and their command system made them a highly flexible, adaptable force. Within hours of Rommel’s pointed orders to Streich, three Kampfgruppen had been assembled to face the oncoming attack. Rommel knew that the British would be tank hunting with their armor, and if they were bold enough to launch such an attack, they most likely had Matildas with them, the one tank the German guns had trouble penetrating with their lighter caliber guns.
But the Germans did not see their own tanks as the primary foil against the British Armor. Tanks were for maneuver, exploitation, and shock against enemy infantry and artillery positions, not for dueling it out with other enemy armor. The primary weapon they would deploy against enemy tanks were the Panzerjagers with their AT guns and, in this case, the division battalion was augmented by three batteries of the formidable 88s, the very same guns Lieutenant Reeves had scouted.
The line faced south, and the 605th PzJager Battalion had twelve PzJ-I self-propelled 47mm AT guns on the extreme left of the position. They were good enough to deal with the light British Mark VI MG tanks, and could bother any of their existing cruiser tanks as well. At ranges of 500 to 600 meters, the gun could penetrate 45 to 50mm of armor, good enough to beat the 30mm armor of the British Mark II A-10 Cruisers. If the Matilda’s led the attack, with heavier 70mm a
rmor, then the 88s would answer the call.
Designed as an anti-aircraft weapon against high altitude targets, the 88 had become a superb anti-tank weapon. In fact, the expression bomber crews used to describe the sharp burst of fire and explosive wrath of the gun, “Ack-Ack,” was a mangling of the German “Acht-Acht” for the number eighty-eight. it was Rommel who would seal the 88’s legacy as a ‘dual purpose’ gun. The wide open spaces of the desert, devoid of trees or other covering terrain, made the 88 an ideal weapon for long range AT fire. It was a big static gun, on a heavy, unwieldy carriage weighing over 7000 pounds, and so it had to be transported to the battle site and set up, but by now the Germans had mastered the deployment of the weapons and honed it to a fine art. They could unlimber and deploy in under three minutes.
The gun’s one liability on that big flak carriage was that it presented a very high profile, but it made up for that by being able to outrange any tank gun it might face. Against aircraft it could hit targets flying as high as 39,000 feet, and when the long steel barrel was leveled for ground target action, its range was an astonishing 7600 meters, though gunners seldom could see or hit a target that far away. Tanks of that day might only reach good firing ranges at 1000 meters or less. The 88 could penetrate 84mm of armor at twice that range, and up close, the powerful gun could smash through up to 200mm of armor, an armor thickness that no British tank of this era would ever attain. Rommel had proved the weapon’s virtue in France at Arras, where he used his 88 batteries to stop the British armor. Today it would be no different, or so he believed when he ordered the guns south to meet the oncoming attack.
Grand Alliance (Kirov Series) Page 13