Grand Alliance (Kirov Series)

by John Schettler

  2nd Sabre was on that flank mopping up the enemy tankettes that had attacked them. That was how he saw the Panzer IIIs, and could not imagine what possessed the enemy to dare an attack against his Challengers with vehicles that light. Then he remembered his briefing, shaking himself to try and get the message. Those weren’t Egyptian radicals out there this time. The evidence was plain to see all around him now—two mangled heavy guns, a third abandoned, and men lying dead in the rising sun, all wearing the uniforms of the German army from the Second World War.

  “Hey Lieutenant,” said his gunner. “Just who are these guys? Those tanks we hit looked like relics.”

  Bowers looked at him, saying nothing. “Just watch your thermals, Mister Alten. I don’t care who they are while they’re shooting at us.”

  He got on his comm-link radio, seeing 2nd Sabre was well ahead of his position now, rounding Hill 205 and approaching a water cairn site south of Alam Uweida on the right. “Sabre two, any further opposition? Over.”

  “Looks like we have them on the run, Lieutenant. Shall I push on to Bir El Khamsa?”

  Bowers had been told what to expect in the briefing before the fight, but he could not believe it. Yet now the evidence was all around him, littering the ground with the carnage of what was once a fairly well established enemy position. He had been told to break it, and move it, and that he did. Yet a quick check with HQ on the situation handed him an order to stop in place and await further orders. He remembered Kinlan’s final admonition about conserving ammo, and suspected that it was the real reason behind that order.

  I could take my tanks right on through, he thought. But my God… what’s out there? This whole damn thing is true! What in the mad hatter’s world has happened to us? Then he realized that men in all his tanks, and the soldiers in the Warriors that were now deploying to work over the ground around them for any threats, would all have this same bemused question. Now he knew why Kinlan was stopping here.

  Yes. Easy does it, he thought. Kinlan wants to wade in gently here, and expose the men to this madness by slow degrees. In the heat of battle you move and fight, picking targets, firing, a thing of synapse and long hours of training and drill. Now, here, on this blasted hill with the wreckage of war all about them, the questions come, whispering up like the ghosts of these men laying dead here.

  He knew that every man out there would soon be asking them, just as his gunner had—what was going on here? Who were these men they had fought this day? What had happened to us? He keyed his headset and confirmed his order.

  “Rodger that, Brigade. Holding in place and awaiting orders. Sabre Three standing by. Over and out.”

  * * *

  The Afrika Korps was not holding in place. The line had been smashed. 605th Heavy Flak was down to three guns now. 5th and 8th Machinegun Battalions had retreated in the face of the enemy attack, barely making it to their vehicle parks where the disheartened men were scrambling up onto the trucks and hoping they still had fuel to get north. Kummel’s company came out of the action with seven of his eighteen Panzer IIIs intact. He soon learned that the entire battalion had been beaten up, with third company all but destroyed.

  Rommel had seen one flank of the enemy attack from his hilltop position, aghast as the heavy armor blasted away his defense. His mind was awhirl, the shock of the battle on him as heavily as it was on his men. He heard the frantic calls for artillery, the resounding crash and swell of the battle, and he knew the sounds of his division well enough. This was one he had seldom heard before. There had been those hours, in the headlong rush across Cyrenaica, when Streich would stop and complain about the fuel situation, or columns would be lost and immobilized in the drifting sand, but this was something else—it sounded like a word he would stubbornly refuse to speak aloud, even in his own mind—defeat.

  He knew his flank had been crushed, and now he had two divisions strung out for over fifty kilometers between this place and the roads leading to Tobruk. How big was this force that had attacked him? From all reports the men seemed to say they had seen no more than ten or fifteen British tanks in any given place. But what were they? He listened to the wide eyed reports of his officers and Sergeants as he passed among them, and they all said the same thing. These were massive, unstoppable heavy tanks, something altogether new. Yet in spite of their size and power, they could move like gazelles, firing at the gallop, and hitting targets with deadly precision. They had torn the German defense apart in ten minutes. Then the smaller vehicles came, fast and furious, with a lethal flak gun that was chopping up the infantry positions. Any time they tried to get a heavier gun into position to engage, the long, evil barrel of those tanks would rotate and fire, blasting it away at impossible ranges with pinpoint accuracy.

  Rommel had heard quite enough, and through the shock and dismay he realized now that discretion was the better part of valor. If he didn’t act quickly, his Afrika Korps could disintegrate into a mass of confusion and disorder. Any thought he had about pressing further east was now gone. It would be all he could do to save his two divisions and get back to Tobruk.

  So he moved, a grey ghost racing in his staff car, from one frantic unit to the next, field glasses in one hand, a map in the other. “We ran into something we did not expect,” he told the men. “It is my fault. Now I want you to move your battalion here. Get any vehicle that can still move on this road and follow it west. Our defense was too hasty. We’ll find better ground to the west and regroup.”

  Units of 15th Panzer and 5th Light were all intermingled now, but the troops still cooperated and moved off as he ordered. The German command structure was so flexible, and the unit training so thorough, that his units retained tremendous cohesion, even in a confused retreat like this. Rommel watched them go. The ones who had not yet seen the enemy tanks were the bravest, ready and quick to move with any order. The men coming back from the front line were quite different, sallow eyed, pale, bloodied and dispirited. He did his best to rally them, worrying now that the infection of their loss would soon spread through his army.

  In time he managed to get his divisions sorted out, and was grateful that the British attack seemed to stop. He had gathered together elements of his recon battalion as a fire brigade to throw in should the enemy persist in their attack, but they stopped two kilometers south of Bir el Khamsa.

  Thank god for that, he thought. They must be strung out as badly as we are. What I need to do now is extricate my battalions and get to better ground. I’ll consolidate later, but now it is time to move. Then I’ll huddle with the division commanders and we’ll determine what to do next. He heard nothing from Streich for some hours, until he was told the man was reported dead. So he took personal charge of the division, driving them west with tireless energy.

  The Desert Fox had been outwitted by the British. The sudden appearance of this enemy armored force had completely unhinged Rommel’s plan. As one unit after another peeled off and began the retreat, it exposed other units in the long line that stretched nearly eighty kilometers along the stony escarpment that pointed north to Sollum and Halfaya Pass. And he had the Italians to worry about as well. Once he was satisfied he had his two divisions moving as he wished, he sped off north to find the Ariete Division where it was operating on the main road just south of the escarpment.

  As the day lengthened, a shadow fell over his mind and soul that whispered that unspeakable word—defeat. They would get half way to the Egyptian border before the retreat would halt for the night, and he would spend long hours helping the columns get fuel wherever they could find it. That was his main concern now. Though he knew he would not sleep that night, or have any time to spend writing his dear Lucie about what had happened, he was already composing the letter in his mind.

  “Dear Lu… We’ve hit a bit of a setback today, a force of British reserves that we had not expected. It seems they have been reinforced with new tanks, and I can only wish I could say the same thing! The men are tired, with a long month of fighting in thes
e harsh desert conditions laying heavily upon them, but they are still good soldiers. The worst of it is that we have no fuel. I have had to leave many non-essential vehicles behind, siphoning off their gasoline so the lorries and tanks can move, and I can get my flak batteries and artillery to better ground. I can see now that until this situation is cured, I can make no further move to the east.

  “Perhaps that is for the best, Lu, as it will give me time to meet with Paulus and make my case. I smell a little intrigue here from the General Staff, most likely Halder again, but Paulus is a good man, and above most of that. You remember him, my good friend from the early days. We were both Company commanders together at Stuttgart. He’s been sent over to take stock and see what might be done to better the supply situation. I am told that I’ll get another division soon, the 90th Light, but what I really need now is another good Panzer Division, and the gasoline to keep the tanks running! I’ll write more later, once our position is secure. For the moment, it’s a few steps back to Libya, that is all. Then we’ll dust ourselves off and see about Tobruk. Perhaps I was unwise to bypass that fortress and leave it to the Italians.”

  Yes, he thought, very unwise…

  Chapter 21

  The British advance was equally disorganized. O’Connor had stayed with the 7th Brigade during the attack, working hand in hand with Kinlan, advising him on desert conditions, and what he would be likely to encounter from the Germans.

  “They’re tough, professional troops,” he said. “The shock must have hit them very hard, but they are far from beaten. If I were in Rommel’s place I would be doing exactly what he’s up to now—a good fast retreat to El Agheila and Mersa Brega. I’ve seen that ground, and it is very strong terrain for defense. What we need to do now is get General Wavell out here and see what we can muster for an advance.”

  “And go through the show and tell again with him?” said Kinlan. “I’m still pinching myself, General, and I have no doubt you are too.”

  Fedorov came in with Popski, congratulating them both on the quick victory. “It was as I expected,” he said, “but I would not become complacent here. The Germans will learn and adapt.”

  Fedorov knew that the Germans had suffered a similar shock in Russia when they encountered the Soviet T-34 and heavy KV-1 tanks. They were nowhere near as capable as the Challengers, but they did shock the Germans when they realized that none of their existing tanks could penetrate the armor on a T-34, let alone the KV-1. But the Germans adapted their tactics and were able to cope until they could field better tanks in the Panzer IVF, Panther and Tiger models.

  “They will be discussing new tactics down on battalion and company level even now. The next time you will meet a much more prepared defense.”

  “What we need now is good intelligence,” said O’Connor. “From reports I’ve heard, our own boys don’t really know the whole story on this brigade yet. All they know is that the 7th is back, or so I’ve heard on the radio.”

  “And that is all they need ever know,” said Fedorov. I can understand that General Kinlan will eventually have to present the reality of this situation to all of his men, but the inverse would not be wise. General knowledge of the real origin of this brigade must remain a secret.”

  “Well,” said O’Connor, “Wavell will want to know what in bloody hell the men are talking about, because he knows damn well the 7th Armored Division is still at Alexandria. That hat will fly off in the wind in due course.”

  “Wavell will be briefed, but that doesn’t mean the rank and file must know everything. Most would have a good laugh at the story, and not believe a word of it. It is simply too fantastic to explain what has happened—I’m sure you understand this General O’Connor. What they will believe, however, is that Great Britain has a new unit here in the desert, a highly secret unit. Men of war inherently understand the need for secrecy in battle. That is the card we must play here. This is very important—critical in fact.”

  “Agreed,” said O’Connor, but if these men are to fight alongside our boys, it will certainly get chins wagging when they see this equipment.”

  “General Kinlan’s brigade can operate independently,” Fedorov suggested. “Perhaps it could secure the extreme southern flank as you move west again. That is the flank Rommel will always need to use should he attempt another mobile battle. Placing the 7th Brigade there would serve to check that and confine any renewed German offensive to the coastal region.”

  “Perhaps,” said Kinlan, “and I understand what you are urging us to do now, Captain Fedorov, but war is not often so tidy. Military contingencies might compel me to render close support to existing British or Commonwealth units here, and in time, I will need their support as well. My brigade has limited supplies of food and water in train, not to mention ammunition. I’m not sure anything can be done about the latter, but we’ll need other supplies, including fuel for our vehicles, and it will have to come from the existing logistics network here.”

  “I might suggest we establish a dedicated forward depot to support your troops with these necessities,” said O’Connor. “I can arrange this for you. I’m not sure how your men will handle bully beef tins and biscuits, but I think we can keep you fed. Hauling fuel and water south into this desert is another matter, particularly if you move further west. It will take some planning, and the trucks of course, but it could be done.”

  “How is the fuel situation?” asked Fedorov through Popski.

  “We have the Challenger IIE, here, the upgraded model with the improved 1500hp Europack powerplant. It’s very efficient and left room for much more fuel in the tank. Our range is about 550 kilometers. We’ve come about 150 kilometers north from Sultan Apache, so I’ve plenty of fuel in the tanks still, and the supply train has fuel enough to refill all our vehicles one time. After that we need diesel to keep moving.”

  They hovered over the map and Kinlan began to point out a plan he had been considering. “You hold the oasis at Siwa, do you not?”

  “We have men there, but remember that Italian division we observed. They’ve relieved Giarabub, but don’t seem interested in doing anything more for the moment.”

  “Then I propose to move them out of Giarabub directly. That was what your Aussie battalion was wanting to do, but it’s clear they won’t have the force. Once I do that I can establish my main supply hold at Giarabub. You wouldn’t have to move supplies for me all the way to the west. If you can run supplies from Mersa Matruh down to Siwa, then my trucks can pick them up there and move them west to support my move to this position…” He pointed to the edge of the Great Libyan Sand Sea that stretched west to a point above the Jalu oasis.

  “If I move along the edge of that desert, we can secure Jalu for an additional source of water, and then that will be built up to a new forward supply base. Once I settle in north or northwest of Jalu, I’ll be in a position to bushwhack any move the enemy makes on your southern flank, and also free to operate with the intent of threatening the enemy flank as well. My force is capable of standing against anything they throw at us, at least as long as our munitions hold out. So if you can move supplies to Siwa, principally fuel, I’ll handle the rest.”

  “Excellent. I think we can manage that, General Kinlan.” O’Connor was very excited now, but did have a question that needed asking. “Yet you’ve mentioned ammunition on more than one occasion. How long can you operate before you’ll need replenishment?”

  Kinlan looked at Fedorov as Popski translated for him, then folded his arms. “Sergeant Major!” he looked over his shoulder, and the Sergeant was quick to attention.

  “Sir!”

  “Fetch me a Charm round from the Brigade HQ troop stocks.

  “Right away, sir.”

  When the man returned, Kinlan could hand O’Connor something tangible by way of answering his question. The round was an Armor Piercing Fin Stabilized Discarding Sabot, with a bright orange base that narrowed to a thin molded frame. That eventually widened to a silver rimmed base from wh
ich a long, black spike projected, the business end of the penetrating round. It used both Tungsten and depleted Uranium to make it the lethal weapon it was, and its unorthodox shape and configuration immediately answered one question.

  “I don’t suppose your people have any of those lying about,” said Kinlan. “That round uses materials your industry will not have at the moment, and I’m afraid there is no way it could be duplicated. So this is a come as you are party for us, General. Once we fire the last of those little devils, the show is over. My tanks have a mix of various munitions, but I’ve no more than 150 rounds per tank. That said, if we make them count, each one of these demons can put one of Rommel’s tanks out of business, and then some. He’s already seen what they can do, and that has everything to do with why he’s headed west now. That and some precision artillery fire from our long range 155s.”

  “I understand,” said O’Connor, hefting the round and handing it back to the Sergeant. “And I don’t suppose we would be much help with your maintenance issues either.”

  “I’m afraid not. No General, you can send us food, fuel, water, and perhaps small arms munitions. I’ll put my people on it and we’ll see what, if anything, we can use.”

  “I suggest I go to Wavell now in the KA-40,” said Fedorov. “I can speak Russian with him, and prepare him for what he will find when he arrives here. Perhaps a note or some communication as to the urgency of our meeting, from you General O’Connor, would be useful as well.”

  “Certainly,” said O’Connor, tapping his riding crop. He was beginning to feel right at home here, his eyes still transfixed whenever a Challenger II was near. The thought he had such a force within his grasp now was rousing, after scraping along with Mark VI machinegun tankettes and old cruiser tanks that could barely get fifty miles before they broke down. He had seen the brigade in action, and was awesomely impressed. The power they represented was fearsome, even though he understood it was limited now, as Kinlan had clearly explained. His mind looked ahead to what would follow this victory, and the immediate moves the British might now undertake.