by Phil Ward
Tonight’s melodrama was icing on the cake. The battle raged. However, it was strictly a one-sided affair. The Italians were hunkered down, not fighting back. Which was how Col. Randal liked his battles to come off.
The way it worked in Raiding Forces was, if they fired one million rounds at the bad guys, that was a good day—or in this case, night. If the bad guys fired one round back at them—that was a bad day.
Ex-Lt. Jaxx and King drove up right on time. Jim threw his gear in the back of the jeep and climbed aboard.
“Captain McKoy,” Col. Randal said, “will you inform Major Pelham-Davies upon his return that I have departed the area.”
“Roger that, John,” Capt. McKoy said. “I’ll see you when I see you.”
“As soon as you get back to RFHQ,” Col. Randal said, “you and Mr. Treywick are released to go to the States—take care of your business.”
“In that case,” Capt. McKoy said, “could be some time before we meet up.”
“Have a good trip.”
• • •
The Hudson flew in and landed on the abandoned track a short distance from “The Great Teddy’s” decoy tank brigade perimeter. Major Taylor Corrigan had the runway illuminated by lights from the SDF trucks lined on both sides of it. Ex-Lieutenant Billy Jack Jaxx drove up as the airplane touched down.
Colonel John Randal stepped out of the jeep and slung his gear over one shoulder. He shouted to Maj. Corrigan over the noise of the Hudson’s engines, “If I’m not back by the time you return to RFHQ, you and Jeb go ahead and carry out your change of commands.”
“Yes, sir.”
Col. Randal, James “Baldie” Taylor, ex-Lt. Jaxx and King trotted out to the airplane. It had wheeled around and was racing its engines, preparing for takeoff. The four men threw their gear in the rear door and climbed aboard.
Lieutenant Pamala Plum-Martin began taxiing as soon as the door slammed shut. Clearly, the Vargas Girl-looking Royal Marine was on a tight schedule.
Jim and King stretched out on the canvas bench seats in the back while ex-Lt. Jaxx went up to the cockpit to talk to Lt. Plum-Martin.
Major the Lady Jane Seaborn, dressed in tailored battle dress uniform (BDU), mahogany hair in a French twist, was sitting in one of the theatre chairs on the front row when Col. Randal moved forward.
He had not been expecting to find her on board.
Lady Jane gave him one of her patented heart attack smiles, which had the usual life-shortening effect. “Have you been enjoying yourself deceiving the Desert Fox, John?”
“Teddy,” Col. Randal said, “is a genius.”
“While it is not clear if your little charade has had anything to do with it,” Lady Jane said, “Afrika Korps appears to have halted on the Gazala Line right where Dudley Clarke wanted it to.”
“Really?”
“Exactly as you predicted,” Lady Jane said, “the German counterattack was a fake charge.”
“Well,” Col. Randal said, “figuring that out didn’t take a crystal ball.”
“The attack petrified the armchair commando set at Grey Pillars,” Lady Jane said. “Simply the word ‘Rommel’ gives the lads at GHQ the vapors.”
“The campaign in the desert is not only a war of logistics—it’s a maintenance war,” Col. Randal said. “Tanks need a lot of it.
“Can’t attack all the time, Jane—not even the legendary Desert Fox.”
“After our conversation about maintenance walls and then the Afrika Korps’ sudden halt at the Gazala Line,” Lady Jane said, “I have concluded that Rommel does not grasp one simple fact all horsewomen know—ride your horse into the ground, you never win a steeplechase.”
“Captain McKoy thinks the same thing,” Col. Randal said.
“Sun Tzu said,” Lady Jane said, “tactics without strategy is the noise before defeat.”
“You are reading Art of War?”
“Captain McKoy gave me a copy.”
“So, why are you here, Lady Major?”
“Brandy and Parker are engaged in a highly-classified mission for R. J.,” Lady Jane said. “You do not possess the ‘need to know’ the details—do not ask. The plan is for the four of you to parachute in to help the girls bring it to resolution.”
Col. Randal said, “The general’s headed back to Cairo.”
“You, Jack and King, then,” Lady Jane said. “Brandy will brief the mission, meaning the parts you are cleared for, on the drop zone.”
“Pam could have told us that much,” Col. Randal said. “Why are you onboard, Jane?”
“Missed you,” Lady Jane said, “actually.”
“I was only gone overnight.”
“What difference does that make?”
Col. Randal did not have an answer. He was in way over his head with drop-dead gorgeous Lady Jane Seaborn.
He’d missed her too.
13
SMITH AND JONES
Colonel John Randal, ex-Lieutenant Billy Jack Jaxx and King were standing in the tail of the Hudson. The wind was howling in the door, which was open and lashed down. The red light was on.
Major the Lady Jane Seaborn walked back to stand next to James “Baldie” Taylor. The MI-6/SOE Special Operations Chief Middle East was going to retrieve the static lines after the three parachutists exited the aircraft.
Lady Jane was there to give Col. Randal a last kiss. Ordinarily, Lady Jane did not indulge in public displays of affection, but lately she had relaxed her standards. “We will be back in exactly four hours to pick you up. Be safe, John—lunch at the Gezira Club tomorrow.”
Col. Randal gave her a wink, then arched himself outside the aircraft to make a final jumpmaster check. The trailing Hudson, flown by Wing Commander Ronnie Gordon, was bobbing off the port side of the tail of the jump aircraft. The RAF liaison officer to Raiding Forces was getting in a lot of flying time for a man who was supposed to be on light duty from his latest in a long series of crashes—the reason for his sometimes nickname “Flash Bang.”
It was not that W/Cdr. Gordon was a bad pilot. He just got shot down a lot.
In the near distance up ahead, to the left of the nose of the Hudson, Col. Randal could see a burning letter “L” on the ground. It was the correct authentication signal. The light marked the spot where he wanted all three jumpers to land in as tight a formation as possible.
“Close on the door.”
Ex-Lt. Jaxx and King pressed forward until all three Raiders were touching. When the L was one finger off the toe of his never-polished, sun- and sand-blasted, canvas-topped raiding boot, Col. Randal said, “Let’s go.”
The prop blast from the Hudson’s powerful engine grabbed him like a giant, invisible hand. The sensation felt like he came to a screeching halt in mid-air, then was sent tumbling—which is an addictive experience. At least it was now that he had done it as many times as he had. Col. Randal never told anyone that he liked hitting the prop blast, which did not make any sense—being apprehensive about heights as he was.
The chute cracked open, then there was only silence—absolute silence. Col. Randal looked down at the burning L between his boots. No need to pull a slip. He was coming straight down, right on the marker.
Then Col. Randal was swiveling to make a right front PLF. He landed in soft sand, indicating the DZ was in the edge of the Sand Sea. There was so little breeze, his X-type parachute drifted down, collapsed, and landed on top of him.
As jumps went, this was one of the nicest he had ever made.
Brandy Seaborn was there immediately, helping him out from under the canopy. She said, “Hello, handsome.”
“Well, hello to you too, Mrs. Seaborn,” Col. Randal said. “Is that a pistol in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”
“It’s a Beretta, John,” Brandy laughed. “You gave it to me—I am sooooo glad to see you.”
Brandy put her arms around his neck and placed her forehead against Col. Randal’s. “Mmmmm—you smell like gunpowder, love.”
�
��You have no idea what the last eighteen hours have been like,” Col. Randal said. “If anyone ever asks you to be a decoy, don’t do it.”
Ex-Lt. Jaxx and King were down, recovering their parachutes. Captain Penelope “Legs” Honeycutt-Parker and two SDF troopers were assisting them. Not that they needed much assistance.
Col. Randal noticed there were two men in khaki observing what was taking place. Their facial features were obscured by Arab kaffiyeh scarves wrapped around their faces. Four of Major Jack Merritt’s armed SDF troopers were providing security. And that was it.
The SDF men took the parachute bags and placed them in the back of the two jeeps parked by the burning L.
Brandy made the introductions, “John, I would like you to meet Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones.”
Col. Randal did not believe those were their real names. No one offered to shake hands. He did not care for either of them on sight.
“Mr. Smith has decided to work for British Intelligence. Mr. Jones is his . . . friend.”
“I see,” Col. Randal said. Which meant he did not have a clue what was going on. However, he instinctively understood that “friend” had connotations outside the normal meaning of the word.
Ex-Lt. Jaxx and King had separated themselves slightly from the conversation, which gave them a better angle to kill Mr. Smith and/or Mr. Jones should the need arise. Col. Randal was clicked on.
“Here is what is going to happen,” Brandy said. “A small, uninhabited oasis is approximately two miles south of where we are standing. Three Chevrolet trucks are parked there. Five Nazi Brandenburger Commandos are with the vehicles.
“John, I need you, Jack and King to go over there and shoot them.”
“Noisy,” Col. Randal asked, “or quietly?”
“Either way,” the golden girl said. “I simply require them dead.”
Mr. Smith, speaking with a European accent Col. Randal was unable to place, said, “The Brandenburg Regiment is the finest special operations unit in the Wehrmacht. Do not let their reputation concern you. Germans are helpless in the desert like babies—the swine are unable to perform even simple tasks.”
Col. Randal said, “Then why don’t you go do it?”
“I have certain skills,” Mr. Smith said. “They do not include wet operations—your reputation precedes you, Colonel.”
“Are they going to be expecting trouble?” Col. Randal asked.
“No,” Mr. Smith said. “I left the Brandenburgers with a full bottle of Schnapps. Not that they did not have an adequate supply of their own. The fools have been drunk most of our journey.”
“On your return, John,” Brandy said, “your team, Parker and I will move to a strip of hard ground where Pam can land and pick us up.
“Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones will take one of the Chevrolets and drive to Tripoli. The other two trucks will be driven to Cairo by the SDF men with the jeeps.”
“What about the bodies?” Col. Randal asked. “We’ll be leaving fingerprints, Brandy.”
Capt. Honeycutt-Parker said, “Let the buzzards have them.”
• • •
Colonel John Randal, ex-Lieutenant Billy Jack Jaxx and King moved out on
the azimuth Mr. Smith provided. The moon was out and the footing firm, though they were in sand. The Raiders made good time.
Col. Randal did not, however, follow the azimuth for more than a half mile. He made a hard right turn and moved off another half mile before turning back toward the oasis on a new heading. Why take a chance—Mr. Smith may not have been telling the truth.
The Brandenburgers could be lying in ambush somewhere on the line of march he had recommended. Col. Randal was having a difficult time believing the German Commandos were as helpless as claimed. The men he had encountered from the Brandenburg Regiment (an outfit wholly controlled by the Abwehr and made up of some of the most ruthless operators on the planet) had not fit that description.
Then again, he had read classified intelligence reports that indicated German Special Forces did not perform up to their normal standards when operating in the isolated desert environment of the Middle East.
In the distance was a small glow.
“Check it out, King,” Col. Randal ordered.
Without a word the Merc disappeared in the dark. He was gone for approximately fifteen minutes according to the lime green hands on Col. Randal’s Rolex. It seemed like a lot longer than that.
“Who do you think Smith and Jones are, sir?” ex-Lt. Jaxx whispered as they waited.
“I have no idea,” Col. Randal said. Actually he thought he knew the identity of one of them—Lazzlo Almasy. The famous Hungarian desert explorer turned Nazi super phantom, bane to British Intelligence in Middle East Command. The man who regularly transported Abwehr spies across 1,500 miles of the trackless Great Sand Sea from Tripoli to Cairo.
“Mrs. Seaborn and ‘Legs’ Parker are awfully brave to be out here in the middle of the desert meeting Nazis with only four SDF men as security,” ex-Lt. Jaxx said.
“Yes, they are,” Col. Randal said.
King arrived.
“The set-up is exactly as Mr. Smith described, Chief. The only difference, there was one man standing guard.”
“Was?”
“He is not standing guard any longer.”
“All right, then,” Col. Randal said, “let’s do this. King, take point.”
They checked their firearms—9mm MAB-38A submachine guns—the weapon of choice of Raiding Forces. Then King stepped off, moving like a big hunting cat.
The night was cool, perfectly still and eerily quiet. The sand muffled their boots. All three of them were competent in the art of silent movement.
Up ahead, the glow turned into a flickering fire, then the shadows of trucks could be seen. The three Raiders patrolled in single file on high alert.
The Merc led them into the perimeter of the trucks, then froze as they stepped to the edge of the circle of light from the fire. At that point, Col. Randal and ex-Lt. Jaxx moved up beside him on line.
Around the fire could been seen the bundles of four sleeping figures wrapped in blankets. A radio tuned to a Berlin station was playing Lili Marlene. There was more than the one empty bottle of Schnapps littering the ground.
Col. Randal raised his 9mm MAB-38A. When he saw out of his peripheral vision that ex-Lt. Jaxx and King had also raised their weapons, he fired a crisp burst into the nearest figure.
Ex-Lt. Jaxx and King were in action almost simultaneously. The three submachine guns sounded unnaturally loud. The Nazis never knew what hit them. None of the Brandenburgers even had a chance to make it out of his blanket.
It was all over in less than three seconds.
“Never fight fair,” ex-Lt. Jaxx said as they moved forward to make sure everyone was dead. It was not one of Raiding Forces’ Rules, but it might as well have been. The concept was hammered home on a regular basis in the unit.
A search turned up five 9mm MP-28 submachine guns, known to be favored by the Brandenburg Regiment. The Germans had five 9mm Walther P-38 pistols as well.
“Bring the weapons,” Col. Randal said. “Time to go.”
“That was cold,” ex-Lt. Jaxx said. “We just shot four sleeping drunks, sir.”
“Well, you’re the little boy who told me he dropped a bundle of dynamite sticks down the chimney of a hideout on a gang of outlaws one night while serving a warrant with the sheriff,” Col. Randal said.
“True,” ex-Lt. Jaxx said. “But they were waiting inside with Thompson submachine guns and BARs stolen from a National Guard Armory in Waxahachie, Colonel.”
“What did you want me to do, Jack?” Col. Randal asked. “Wake ’em up before we shot ’em?”
“Negative, sir.”
As the three were nearing the site of the burning L, Col. Randal asked King, “Were you able to recognize Mr. Smith’s accent?”
“Hungarian.”
• • •
Colonel John Randal and Major the Lady Jane Seaborn were s
itting behind a potted palm in the back of the Gezira Club. Lady Jane was entertaining him with stories about the people in the room. He was very relaxed, which was the effect she always had on him when they were together.
“See the slim brunette woman at the bar surrounded by admirers?” Lady Jane asked. “Do you find her beautiful?”
Col. Randal peeked out from under one of the low-hanging palm leafs to get a better view. “Attractive . . .”
“Christine Granville,” Lady Jane said. “Recently returned from an extraordinarily hazardous mission in Europe for SOE. It is said she is unbelievably brave—claims to be a former Miss Poland.”
“Really?”
“She is like catnip to men—they become addicted to her,” Lady Jane said. “At least two have committed—or at least attempted to commit—suicide over her. It is said she has the morals of an alley cat.”
“Catnip, huh?”
“SOE in England has no use for Christine for some reason,” Lady Jane said. “She claims Brigadier Gubbins only wants to sleep with her—not assign her another mission.
“MI-5—meaning R. J., is suspicious that Christine may not have British best interests at heart,” Lady Jane said. “Even SOE, as incompetent as the Cairo office is, are leery of her.
“On the other hand, the expatriate Polish community considers her a national hero.”
“Don’t tell me you’re planning to recruit Miss Catnip for your Royal Marines,” Col. Randal said.
“No,” Lady Jane laughed. “Dudley Clarke already beat me to it. He is setting up a miniature A-Force version of RFHQ and stocking it with women called “Dudley’s Duchesses.”
“You’re making that up,” Col. Randal said.
“Not true,” Lady Jane said. “I believe Dudley is jealous of you, John.”
“Why me?” Col. Randal said. “You’re the one who keeps bringing all the good-looking girls on board, Jane.”
Lady Jane laughed and flashed her fabled heart attack smile. “You brought your slave girls Rita and Lana from Abyssinia, Mandy from RAF Habbaniya. And, you imported me from England.”