Operation Iraq

by Leo Kessler

  There was no answer to that, and an unfortunate Dietz knew it. He clicked to attention and snapped, "Jawohl, Obersturmbannführer! Wird gemacht!"

  Half an hour later, Dietz, hovering impatiently next to the battalion's radio operator, was listening to him as he signalled the Vulture's urgent wish to the German embassy in Baghdad. And at exactly the same time a delighted Air Commodore Jeeves, too, listened as the senior British intelligence officer broke the coded message bit by bit, exclaiming at periodic intervals, "We've got the bugger by God! We've got 'em! They're on the run!"

  Jeeves knew – when he had pondered the Vulture's message for a while over a 'chota peg' at the mess, while, in the hills, Iraqi artillery had commenced firing once again – that he hadn't sufficient infantry to attempt to intercept these Germans whenever they started for Baghdad. His local levies would be no good against trained German soldiers. Nor could he strip his defence around the air base. The Iraqis in the hills might get it into their heads to attack once it was clear to them that they were likely not to meet much British opposition. In reality, Jeeves told himself, his only really effective means of attack on these Germans would be his make-shift bomber and fighter-bomber aircraft.

  He guessed German infantry would have little in the way of anti-aircraft weapons. All the same, slow-moving antiquated aircraft, such as his were, manned by untrained crews, would still be fairly easy targets for mass infantry rifle and machine-gun fire. And once he had lost his aircraft, then the great base would be virtually defenceless against any serious attack by the Iraqis in the hills.

  He frowned. Behind the bar, the white-jacketed mess steward asked helpfully, "Another peg, sir?"

  Absently Jeeves nodded. Through the open door, he could see a couple of the trainee pilots waffling on excitedly about the mission against the Iraqis which they had flown the previous afternoon. Their talk was full of old-timers' slang: "wizard prang" … "gave the old kite all she'd got" … "no stooging around, you know, old bean?" They sounded as if they had been in service since the days of Lord Trenchard and the old Royal Flying Corps. Instead they were a couple of fresh-faced kids who couldn't have been a day older than nineteen. He looked at them for a minute or so, as they sipped their beer from – naturally – silver tankards, as if they were real old hands, and told himself they wouldn't see out the year before they got the chop. Could he shorten their lives even more by sending them on a new mission against the Huns somewhere out there in the desert?

  The mess steward brought him his second 'chota peg', and he took a hefty drink of it which made him cough. He knew there was little time for sentimentality in wartime. It was always the young and the best who died first; it had always been thus. But what of the future, when the war was over and the young and the best were all dead? His frown deepened. What the hell was he going to do, dammit?

  It was then that the MO and his medical orderly helped the pathetic wreck of a man into the bar. His face was hollowed out by privation and torn by camel thorn, so much so that a startled Jeeves didn't recognize him until the wreck croaked, "I would'na mind a wee dram mysen, Commodore, if you're pushing the boat out."

  Jeeves nearly fell off the barstool. "Good God!" he exclaimed. "It's you, McLeod. We'd given you up for dead, man."

  McLeod gave a weak smile, as the medical officer helped him to sit down. Ten minutes later, after yet another dram, the exhausted squadron leader had made up Jeeves' mind for him. The raid on the Germans, suicidal or not, would go ahead.

  BOOK 4 – Disaster

  CHAPTER 15

  On the same day that the Vulture received his signal from the German Legation in Baghdad that a convoy of Iraqi Army trucks would carry his men out of the desert to Baghdad, where they would be reformed and supplied with heavy weapons before transferring to the Iraqi Brigade besieging RAF Habbaniyah, von Dodenburg made his own decision. But, unlike the Vulture, who would be heading east with what remained of SS Wotan, he would go west.

  As he confided to Matz and Schulze, whom he hoped would steal him the machine pistols they would need for their escape, "I've had enough of this damned country. Let the Iraqis do what they like. My job is to save what's left of my First Company."

  "But why west, sir?" Matz had queried.

  "Because that's the way our captors won't expect us to go, Corporal."

  Schulze beamed. "If I may say so, sir, that's smart thinking."

  "You may," von Dodenburg had replied sardonically. "Now, let me see you do some smart thinking, you big rogue, and get me some firepower. We've got to be armed, that's for certain."

  "It will be done, sir," Schulze said solemnly. "Me and Matzi's got a plan. When we going?"

  "As soon as possible. Tonight if you can get those weapons. And see the men take a full water bottle with them, and something – anything – that'll sustain them till we reach the Syrian frontier. Dates, some of that flat bread the nomads eat, anything that they can save from the day's rations. All right, get on with it. I want to work out my plan." And with that he had vanished, watched, unknown to the three Wotan men, by Lieutenant Singh, whose handsome brown face looked worried.

  "My piles are getting frigging piles, honest, Schulzi," Matz moaned as they crouched there in the cold light of the full moon, watching the nomads' huts. It was half an hour now since Fatima had smuggled herself out of her father's hut into that one inhabited by the wall-eyed giant.

  Still nothing had happened, and Schulze had commented impatiently, "Slow buggers aren't they, these towel-heads? Wouldn't take Frau Schulze's handsome son long to get a diamond-cutter and give her a piece of stiff German salami that'd make her eyes pop, believe you me."

  "Go on," Matz sneered softly. "A limp-tail like you? She'd be panting for a bit o' my Bavarian schnitzel though..." He stopped short. "Look, they're beginning to dance the mattress polka!"

  Matz was right. From inside the hut came the sound of heavy panting and giggles of delight.

  Schulze wasted no more time. "Come on!" he hissed. "Let's have a look-see." Noiselessly, for such a big man, he crept to the rear of the makeshift hut and peered inside through a gap in the material. By the light of a wildly flickering candle, he could just see a naked Fatima balanced on top of an equally naked giant, pumping herself up and down with obvious delight, her mighty breasts quivering like great white puddings. "Will you cast yer glassy orbs on that, Matzi," he whispered.

  Matz was so overcome by the sight that he crossed himself and hissed, "Holy straw sack, Schulzi, all that meat and no potatoes. That black gown of hers hid a lot."

  Schulze swallowed hard as, carried away by a frenzy of wild passion, the big woman rode the giant so hard that her nipples started to slap her chin loudly.

  Next to him, Matz whispered in an awed voice, "The way she's going at it, yer'd think she'd do him an injury."

  Schulze tore his gaze from that scene of crazy sexual abandon and sighed, "Great crap on the Christmas tree, Matzi, I only wish she'd do me an injury like... Come on, let's go and find those frigging popguns." Whispering to himself just how hard the poor average stubble-hopper's lot was, he led Matz to the attached hut, where the wall-eyed giant had secured the machine pistols he had taken from the Wotan troopers when they had been forced to surrender. Minutes later, they were on their way back to their rendezvous point with von Dodenburg and the rest, including a surprised Lieutenant Singh, who had been roused from his sleep to be told they were breaking out, laden with four machine pistols apiece and ammunition. Behind them, the wall-eyed giant and the monstrous naked Fatima were now engaged in some complicated, if delightful, dog-like sex, while the rest of the nomad camp seemingly slept on.

  Von Dodenburg led the way, with the men armed with the machine pistols to the front and rear of the thin column. The moon was out and he could see the land to the west stretching out in front of him. He thought it a vast dead land in which nothing grew – harsh, cruel and inhospitable. He frowned abruptly, feeling that somehow this land saw him and his troopers as intruders. It wa
s an odd sensation. He shuddered, fighting back the strange sensation that there was something out there watching them. "Idiot," he cursed to himself. "Like a stupid old dame, thinking that there are robbers under her bed." He told himself he should be glad that he was clearing out of the place at last. Iraq was a country that he personally didn't want to see again, and he felt sure that the rest of his men felt the same.

  Lieutenant Singh, however, didn't share his sentiments. As they headed westwards, strung out in a long file, hands dug deep into their pockets for warmth, heads bent into the protection of their collars against the night cold, Singh said, "I hope you will forgive me, von Dodenburg, but I hope you know what you're doing."

  "How do you mean?" von Dodenburg asked.

  "I mean, the Führer himself ordered this operation. Now you're abandoning it and returning to the uncertainties of French Syria."

  Singh's tone, as it often did, annoyed von Dodenburg. He snapped back, "I can assure you that I do know what I'm doing. What can I and a handful of men, virtually without weapons, do here, I ask you? No, Singh, my first concern is my men. I've got to save them from this terrible shitty place."

  Singh grunted something and their conversation died away to nothing. For a few moments, von Dodenburg considered the Indian's words, telling himself that, despite his charm and intelligence, Singh was a queer bird; he seemed much more enthusiastic about this Iraq mission than his own troopers. Then he dismissed the handsome young officer and concentrated on the way ahead.

  The night air was clear and invigorating, the going was easy, with firm sand, and there was something soothing now about the vastness of the silver-velvet sky. He told himself he was going to pull it off. For a change, ever since they had left Athens, luck was on their side; they'd reach the Syrian border all right, he knew that instinctively.

  Time passed. The moon now scudded in and out of the clouds. Every so often black shadows swept silently across the desert. Here and there the Wotan troopers spotted stunted bushes as the moon reappeared, and, for a moment, took them for men waiting silently for them to come closer before opening fire. And every time, after they saw they'd been fooled, they'd curse themselves for having been taken in, until it happened again. Passing up and down the line to reassure the men, von Dodenburg could understand their feelings. It was now about three hours since they had slipped out of the nomads' camp. By this time, surely, the nomads must have realised they had gone. The question was, would they attempt to pursue the fugitives? After all, the Wotan troopers did represent hard cash to them.

  "What do you think?" he asked Schulze and Matz as he came up to them acting as the escapers' rearguard.

  Matz chuckled. "The way Fatima was giving the wall-eyed bugger a bit o' the other, I don't think he'll be getting up as soon, sir. She was really knocking the stuffing out of the ugly bastard."

  "And it wasn't stuffing she was knocking out of him, sir," Schulze hinted. "No, sir, I don't think they'll be after us soon. Will we reach the Syrian frontier before they get the digit out of the orifice?"

  "I'm hoping so, Schulze. Just after dawn is my guess, if we can keep up this pace."

  "Well then, sir," Schulze said with new enthusiasm. "It looks as if we're gonna outrun the towel-heads."

  But Schulze, as was often the way, was going to be proved wrong.

  "Look, sir," Singh began.

  Von Dodenburg clamped his hand around the Indian's mouth. "Shut up!" he hissed roughly. "I can see him." He bent low and then, using the old soldier's trick, he turned his head to one side and swung it to his front, with his gaze held close to the ground. A moment's pause. Suddenly he looked up. Yes, looming up a lighter black against the background of the night, he saw first one, then two and three men standing motionless there. He frowned. But he had expected trouble here, if anywhere. There were two hills covering the trail, and the unknowns had taken up their position on the hill to the right, which gave them access to direct fire on the route below. In short, it was an ideal place for an ambush, if this was what was intended; and somehow von Dodenburg guessed it was.

  Slowly he released his grip on Singh's mouth and the latter gasped, "Nomads?"

  "Could be. At all events, I don't think their intentions are particularly honourable. And there are more of them beyond the bluff. I can hear them."

  Surprisingly, Singh didn't seem worried or frightened, just puzzled as to what von Dodenburg might do next. Perhaps he thought a veteran like the young SS captain had encountered situations like this many times before and knew what to do. "What do we do?" Singh asked.

  Under other circumstances, von Dodenburg might have laughed at that 'we'. Not now. The situation was too serious. With the few weapons he had at his command, he knew he couldn't engage in a full-scale battle. He had to take the enemy by surprise and make it short and, he hoped, sweet. "Not 'we'," he answered. "I."

  "Sorry," Singh mumbled. "I understand."

  Von Dodenburg forgot Singh. He had other things to think about. He looked at the steep hillside to his right, visible for a moment in the fleeting light of the moon. "What do you think, Schulze?" he asked, as the big NCO came creeping up to where he and Singh crouched.

  Schulze sniffed. "Looks a tough bastard. But me and Matzi here can manage it."

  Matz groaned at the way Schulze was volunteering his services, but Schulze didn't appear to notice.

  "All right," von Dodenburg said. "This is the drill. We don't want a full-scale fight, we haven't got the strength. I want you two rogues to scatter them, make them think there are more of us than there are."

  "We've only got four malts apiece," Matz objected. "We'll soon use them up."

  "Then we'll use them, you little piss pansy," Schulze sneered. "Then you can bite the friggers to death with yer teeth. We're ready, sir."

  "Off you go then, Schulze. We'll keep moving slowly forward as if we've seen nothing. They'll concentrate on us, I hope."

  "Don't you worry, sir," Schulze said. "We'll see the towel-heads off. After all, we're Wotan."

  Von Dodenburg choked. Suddenly he'd realised he might well be sending the two old hares off to their deaths. But that fact didn't seem to worry them. They went willingly, even gladly. Where did one find soldiers like these? "Look after yourselves," he said thickly. "Keep your eyes peeled, do you hear?"

  "Yessir," Matz replied. "Like the proverbial tinned tomatoes." And with that they had vanished into the darkness.

  CHAPTER 16

  Digging his toes into the sandy rock, his machine pistol slung across his broad shoulders, Schulze started the ascent. It was more difficult than he had anticipated, especially now that the moon had disappeared beneath the clouds once more. Clinging to the few handholds he could find, till the ends of his fingers were numb with pain and he felt he could hold on no longer, he edged his way, millimetre by millimetre, up the cliff face. Soon, despite the coolness of the night, the sweat was pouring off him. It soaked his uniform, which clung to him unpleasantly and threatened to blind him with sweat time and time again.

  Then he hit an easier section of ledges and his progress was quicker. Not for long. He was faced by several metres of murderous camel thorn that tore and ripped at his flesh cruelly. Once, he hung perilously by his fingertips, unable to move due to the thorns which had attached themselves to his torn slacks. Desperately, he twisted and turned for what seemed an age, to free himself from these sharp barbs. As one gave, another lashed out and whipped itself against his tortured body. It took all his will power to prevent himself from crying out loud with the pain from those cruel thorns.

  Once, he paused, and could hear the rest of the company advancing towards the pass. To Schulze, hanging there gasping for breath, it seemed they were making a hell of a noise for trained soldiers. But then, he told himself, that was part of the CO's plan. Now he put the toe of his boot in a hold and reached his hand up the sharp edge of the flattish rock just above his head. The foothold gave. For a moment he thought he'd tumble down to the bottom of the steep h
ill. He didn't. But his hand slipped too. The rock ripped off a fingernail. A wave of almost unbearable pain swept through his body. He thrust his grey face against the dirt. It stifled his cry of agony – just in time.

  Next moment he'd made it, to lie face forward on the top, gasping for breath like someone who had just run a great race.

  Matz led the way, with legs that felt strangely rubbery. They had unslung their machine pistols and, in the soft purple of the pre-dawn sky, they edged quietly to where the enemy, if they were really the enemy, would be waiting for the rest of Wotan's First Company.

  To the east, the sky was beginning to flush a dramatic red. Things were being bathed in a warm crimson light, everything sharp, hard, brittle, with the waiting enemy on the hilltop silhouetted a stark black. Ten minutes more and the sun would rise over the horizon and the ground would begin to burn, ridding it of any shadows. But for the time being the two NCOs could still worm their way forward in the patches of blackness, using the 'dead ground' to their advantage.

  Out of the side of his mouth, Schulze hissed, "Get as close as possible, Matzi, and then, when I give you the wire, open up. We're not going to give ourselves away by challenging the towel-heads. They're armed, they're acting suspicious-like; therefore they're for the chop. Klar?"

  "Klar."

  They wriggled on, getting ever closer to the unsuspecting 'towel-heads', whose gaze was concentrated on the Wotan troopers down below as they approached the pass.

  To the rear of the waiting lookouts there were others, lying on the ground – perhaps a score of them, some of them holding the halters of their mounts, perhaps to steady them when the firing commenced. Most of them looked half asleep, something for which Schulze was thankful. For his rough-and-ready plan was daring and risky. He and Matz would take the lot of them out, using up all their ammunition to do so. It was chancey, he knew – very. It needed only one stoppage and then the enemy would have them by the short and curlies. But if it worked, it would save casualties among the troopers below, half of whom were totally unarmed.