‘The entire regiment?” Ramcke thought it was a long way to move his troops on such short notice. “We are still consolidating on Cyprus at Nikosia.”
“Don’t worry about that. What’s left of the Cypriot resistance has fled to the highlands. I will dispatch a battalion to see about them. Pull together your recon battalion, and a company of engineers. That is all you need take. Von Sponek already has the 65th Airlanding Regiment south of the river. You will land to the north. There is a road there that extends up to Mosul, and the British may come from that direction. They must not be allowed to move up the river further towards Raqqa, or to cross the river to attack Dier Ez Zour. Things did not go so well for the 65th in Holland, so put some backbone in the men. If necessary, blow the bridge over the Euphrates.”
It had been necessary.
Within hours of his arrival on the scene north of Dier Ez Zour, Ramcke learned that the British were, indeed, pushing two columns toward the city. One advanced directly up the Euphrates, and the 65th Regiment was soon engaged so heavily that its commander was killed, leaving Ramcke as the senior officer on site. Yet he realized he was on the wrong side of the river. So he made the decision to take his troops south of the Euphrates and have his engineers demolish the bridge. Then word came that a third British column was now advancing on the town along the road to Palmyra, and Ramcke knew his forces would soon be badly outnumbered, and under attack from three quarters.
It was then that he received Von Sponek’s orders to withdraw to Raqqah. “Use any vehicle you can get your hands on,” he told him on the radio. “But get your men north as soon as possible. There are British commandos at Raqqah! Take the place and hold it.”
The transport available was fairly lean, but given casualties sustained against the British 10th Indian Division, they had collected enough trucks to move most of the men. For those that had no vehicles, a special night operation was mounted by landing nine JU-52s on the desert roads north of the town, as the airfield was now under British artillery fire. It was a daring operation, but “Auntie Ju” would not fail her men that day, and the nine planes all got safely away, including Ramcke and most of his Recon Battalion.
The last troops to leave the position at Dier Ez Zour, he would be the first to arrive up north that night at Raqqah. Word had come that British commandos were already at the airfield, so the JU-52s that carried them also stored fresh parachutes for the men.
“Well, this is a real bitter cup of tea,” said Ramcke to Oberleutnant Adolf Feldmann, a special agent of the Abwehr attached to his unit. He had been in Iraq, trying to organize resistance against the British in coordination with the Brandenburgers, and he had a troop of twenty of those elite commandos with him when he arrived at Dier Ez Zour to join the Germans there.
“A night parachute landing northeast of the airfield—what a nightmare. Have a look at this map! There are hills there. We’ll have to land well beyond those, and well away from the river. The last thing I need is to have half my men in the water and marshes. It will take us an hour to find the men in the dark and get organized. In the meantime, god only knows what the British will be doing. They had the pluck to mount this very same operation last night, and they’ve taken the airfield.”
“Then they’ll have men on those hills as well,” said Feldmann. “They overlook the airfield and town. You’ll have to take them as your first objectives.”
“I don’t like it,” Ramcke shook his head. “We’ll have until dawn to secure the place, but we don’t know what we’re up against.”
“It cannot be much,” Feldmann reassured him. “My Brandenburgers would be more than a match for any commandos the British may have sent there. Your battalion is just along for the ride!” His smile conveyed his confidence, but Ramcke was not so certain.
The drone of the JU-52 was little solace as the planes flew north in the dark. All the men were busy getting into their parachute harnesses, and stuffing weapons and equipment into landing canisters. Ramcke watched them, undaunted by the fact that this was a retreat, and already seeing it as a new attack on just another objective.
“You there, Sergeant,” he said watching the men with the canisters. “No rifles there—every man is to carry his own weapon. Use the canisters only for the machineguns, mortars and ammunition. I want the men ready to fight as soon as they hit the ground. Understood?”
He had learned a few things from the action on Malta and Cyprus. It had been German doctrine to drop all weapons in canisters, which left the men with only their sidearm when they hit the ground. That wasn’t going to happen this time. He knew the remainder of the 65th Luftland Regiment, and the other two companies of his battalion, would be moving all night, but did not expect they would reach the town until well after dawn given the condition of the roads.
At least we managed to slip away without the British realizing what we were up to, he thought. They damn near caught the whole of the 65th Regiment in a nice little cauldron. We might have held, but for how long? I’ve little in the way of artillery here, and only a few mortars and recoilless rifles for heavy weapons. This whole operation was mounted with too much haste and too little thought.
“Don’t worry,” said Feldmann. “I had men through that town some months ago. The whole place sits north of the river. There are escarpments to the south, and that terrain will be all but impassible for the British lorries. See here…” He fingered the map to indicate a position southeast of the town along the river. “See how the river bends close to the escarpments? The flood plain narrows there, and that will make a nice bottleneck for the boys from the 65th Regiment to hold up the British. This place is very defensible.”
“I suppose so, after we take it. Remember the British are there now. I thought the French had left a garrison, but they pulled all those troops south towards Damascus when they heard we were coming. And I’ll say another thing,” Ramcke shook his head. “Things aren’t all rosy to the south either! Have you heard what happened to 9th Panzer Division?”
“I read the reports. I’m Abwehr.”
“Yes? Well what was in your reports about these new British tanks? They went right through our boys, and Rommel got the same treatment a month ago in North Africa.”
“A new tank,” said Feldmann. “I’ll admit we knew nothing about it, and I’m told it is considerably bigger than their old Matildas. But don’t expect any here, Ramcke. Wolff held off the British at Palmyra easily enough, and you can do the same.”
“Wolff had the entire 16th Regiment come up behind him as a timely reinforcement,” said Ramcke. “Those were the troops that actually got the job done in Holland, so it’s no wonder the British left us Palmyra.”
“And your boys were the troops that got the job done at Malta and Cyprus. Why the long face, Herr Oberst? Remember—the 7th Machinegun Battalion is also coming up from Homs through Aleppo. In fact, they might be very near the town now. You have the leading edge of Sturm-Regiment One here. Lightning at the edge of the storm! This will be no problem, I assure you.”
Yes, it all sounded good on paper, Ramcke thought, and the map, sketchy as it was, did show favorable terrain for the defense once they had control of the town. After all, how many commandos could the British have there? Feldmann was probably correct. Yet something in his belly remained unsettled that night, an uncomfortable feeling as the amber lights winked on in the long cabin, indicating the planes were nearing their planned dropping point.
“Ten minute warning,” said Feldmann. “I have just one section of my Brandenburgers here. The rest are on plane nine. May I have the honor of taking my men out first, Herr Oberst?”
“The honor? It’s all yours Feldmann. I didn’t know these were your men, but they can act as pathfinders.”
It was then that they heard it, a dull explosion far ahead, and bright light flashed in the sky. Feldmann pressed his head against the side window, trying to see what was going on. “We’re under attack!” He shouted, then was quickly up with a terse hand signal to his Brandenburge
rs.
Ramcke looked and saw that one of the lead transports had been hit, and was already falling from the sky, its wing blazing with fire, men already leaping from the fuselage for their lives. How had the British discovered them like this in the dark? Could it be they moved fighters into the airfield at Raqqah for this very reason? He knew he now had only seconds to get his men to safety.
“Everyone up! Make ready to jump!
He saw the gunner on the MG-15 machinegun, its black barrel pointed out one of the open square windows looking for targets, but seeing nothing to fire at. Then the sky lit up with another explosion, and this time Ramcke saw what was happening. Something was in the sky, moving like a sleek shadow and then disappearing into a cloud. It was unlike anything he had seen, and it had fired a searing rocket at the formation. Another plane had been struck, its right wing engine blown off and the wing itself careening away as the plane tipped over and fell.
“Come on!” he shouted. “Jump! Jump for your lives!”
The cabin light dimmed to deep red, indicating that they had just reached the edge of the intended drop zone. Then the wild moment came. The doors were slid open, and one by one the men darkened the portal with their bulk, tall, strong soldiers, young and proud. Out they went, jumping as if they were leaping from a sinking ship. As each man went, he fell into the chaos of the scene outside.
Feldmann was first out, just as he had wished. Behind him went the five black uniformed Brandenburgers, then the men of Ramcke’s HQ squad. His company was going to be scattered all over the desert below, those that survived. There were 18 men on each of the nine planes, and he had already seen two go down in flaming wrecks.
The men pushed forward, the urgency of the moment moving them on. Out they went, falling like leaves on the wind of a storm, into the black Syrian night. Ramcke reached the door, saw the chaotic scene framed there, then literally cast his fate to the wind in a tumultuous, harrowing fall.
You’re too old for this Hermann, he told himself, a man of 52 years in 1941. He had only just completed his parachute qualification course the previous year when he joined Student’s troops. Tonight he was supposed to make a nice bumpy landing on the desert somewhere, not go plummeting into the dark of a night air action. Then he felt the stiff jolt as his parachute deployed, his breath coming hard, and a moment of exhilaration. His life now hung by those long cords, buoyed by the fluttering chute, drifting on the wind.
Above he could see men streaming out of the last plane, and then he saw something come streaking in at the JU-52, plunging right into the fuselage like a fiery harpoon. The bright fire of the explosion lit up the night, sending ripples of color on the flanks of thin clouds. He saw the sky peppered with the dark shapes of other drifting parachutes, men dangling beneath them as they fell.
What was it Feldmann had just said to him? Lightning at the edge of the storm! A rallying cry to bolster his spirits, but to see his men there now, hanging there at the mercy of the marauding enemy, he realized it was someone else’s lightning in the sky this time.
Off in the distance he could see the shadowy square shapes of buildings, and the glimmer of moonlight on the winding bend of the Euphrates. The evening crescent was just rising. Then the ground seemed to come up much faster than he expected, and he was tumbling down onto the hard desert floor in a bruising landing. His parachute scudded along before finally collapsing on itself as Ramcke struggled to get up, feeling the bite of pain from his left ankle. Thank god nothing was broken, and he was able to stand, alive and still in one piece as he slipped out of his parachute harness, struggling to get his wits about him.
One minute he was on the plane talking with Feldmann over the drone of the engines, then the wild fall, and now the relative quiet of the desert night. Three planes had fallen of the nine, and as cruel as his fate had been, it was better than that which had befallen the men on those stricken JU-52s. Two other men fell close to him, and he started for the nearest, knowing his job was now to collect his company as best he could, and get them into a position to make an advance on the town.
It was going to be a very long night.
Chapter 5
Fedorov heard the planes in the sky, his eyes squinting into the inky night as he saw the first rockets fire. The mobile force had landed at Raqqah several hours ago, ready to concentrate their full force to try and seize the airfield and bridges over the Euphrates. To their great surprise, they found the settlement largely empty of enemy troops. Most all of the French garrison there had been pulled south to the renewed fighting around Nebek, north of Damascus. Only a few desert cavalry units had remained, and when the sleek X-3 helos made their first runs over the town, this last remnant was soon taking to anything they could ride and hastening away as fast as they could.
After overflying the airfield, the team descended there, the Russian Marines storming out in four groups led by Troyak, Zykov, Chenko and Popski. They fanned out, quickly securing the tarmac and hanger area, and then making their way into a few buildings that served as an administrative facility, and a squat makeshift control tower. They found the base empty, but saw signs of recent occupation, even a cup of tea that was still warm in the admin building offices. Apparently the French authorities had also made a hasty retreat.
“We’ll need to make sure there’s no fifth column still in the town,” said Fedorov. “When the Argonauts land, we should sweep the whole place, but I want to see the bridges first.”
Troyak led the way, with Zykov’s team in support, leaving Chenko and Popski to hold the airfield and guard the vital KA-40. The X-3s lingered above, until they had satisfied themselves that there was no threat near the town. Then they made for the airfield to set down, and the Argonauts soon reinforced the ground teams with another thirty men led by Lieutenant James Byng. A distant relation to the storied Earls of Strafford who bore that family name, Byng was all military. He came to the Fairchild security team aboard Argos Fire after a five year stint with SAS, a tall, well muscled man, sandy haired, trim, and thoroughly professional.
Popski met the man at the airfield, admiring the black suited Argonauts as they assembled there.
“Half the Russians have gone off to have a look at the bridges,” said Popski. “The place was all but deserted when we arrived, but we can’t count on that for long. We may have surprised them, but they’ll know the value of this town just as we do. So we’ll need to plan our defense here. Word is that the Germans have had enough at Dier ez Zour, but that means they’ll be heading our way, and they could be here by tomorrow. Have a look at my map, Lieutenant, and see what you think.”
Byng removed his goggles and gloves, his automatic weapon still slung over his shoulder. The map was not the sort of well detailed document he might be accustomed to, but it depicted most of the key terrain features near the town.
“This high ground north of the airfield will have to be occupied,” he said at once, and Popski nodded.
“I thought as much,” he returned. “The rise northeast of the field looks to be a good place to set up our mortars. It overlooks both the town and airfield.”
“Good enough, and you might post a squad on that hill as well.” Byng pointed to an elevation due north from their position. “You’ve only twenty men?”
“Twenty-one, counting the pilots. We lost a man at Palmyra.”
“Well I was thinking to take my Argonauts south to the river. We can put some defense into the town, and hold the bridges. Your men might best be held here to cover the airfield and that high ground. We were heavy on missiles this loadout, so I’ve only brought three ten man squads. But we’ll be breaking into teams of five men each. I’ll designate them Argo one thru six.”
“We’ll do the same,” said Popski, “four fire teams. I’ll post our team Chenko with me here to hold this field. Troyak and Zykov will occupy that high ground.”
Byng looked over the hills again, the concern on his face obvious. “We won’t be able to hold here for very long,” he said fran
kly. “You can put ten men on that high ground, but they won’t be able to stop any determined attack. And that town is the real problem. If they get men on the east side of the river, they’ll be able to approach through this area here.” He pointed to the map at a place labeled Samara. “They’ll come through the town like water through a sieve. If I have a fire team covering each bridge, and one in reserve, that leaves me only fifteen men to watch that flank and cover the town itself.”
“Yes, it’s not a pretty picture,” said Popski, “but we’ll have to touch it up as best we can.”
“Very well, Colonel. By the way, let me say it’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. I’ve…” Byng smiled. “Let’s just say I’ve read about you and that private little army you set up in the western deserts.”
“What? Popski’s Private Army?” Popski always liked the sound of that. “Shan Hackett gave me that handle, though I’ve yet to sink my teeth into the business. This bit here is a good workout for the time being. One day I’ll get back to Egypt and Libya. If you’re ever at large there, look me up, Lieutenant. I’ve seen your blokes go at it. Damn good men.”
“That they are, sir.”
“I’ll let the Russian Captain know what we’ve planned, and fill his ear with your comments as well. For my money, I would rather see us concentrate the whole force available on one objective, like this airfield here. It’s really the principle supply point. Roads east and south are long and hard, and there’s no rail connection to this place. So any supplies will have to be flown in, and this field is vital for that. I’m sure he’ll agree. He’s damn touchy about that helicontraption of his there, and seeing what you lads can do in those little birds of yours, I can understand why.”
“Yes sir. Nothing like knowing LT Ryan is up in those X-3s on overwatch,” said Byng.
It was just after dusk when Fedorov returned with Troyak and Zykov, relieved at the bridge defense by Byng and his Argonauts.
“The Lieutenant says you have a plan,” he said to Popski.
Crescendo Of Doom (Kirov Series Book 15) Page 4