The Sharp End (Raiding Forces Book 10)

by Phil Ward

  “Affirmative.”

  Waldo said, “Uh-oh!”

  The IMAM Ro.63 roared into life. Jim taxied out of the hangar, waved out the window, then the beautiful little aircraft rolled past the mortar that was firing the illumination rounds, picked up speed and took off in an incredibly short distance. It disappeared into the night.

  Col. Randal ordered, “OK—Lieutenant Hays, pull in your security. Rally on the mortars.”

  “Yes, sir,” the Five-Seven-Five I&R platoon leader said.

  Flanking Fort No. 9, Captain Roy Kidd was in command of A/575, the company tasked with making the ground attack. He had all three platoons on line, lying in the prone position.

  The Rangers were becoming increasingly anxious to get going.

  There had been a few bursts of MG fire from the roof of the fort when they first arrived, but that had long since died out. Capt. Kidd was pretty sure the Italians had abandoned the position. He did not share that thought with his men.

  Capt. Kidd wanted his Rangers psyched up, giving it everything they had when A Company stood up and went in for the kill. The quicker they overran the objective, the better—time saves lives in the attack. The longer it takes to develop an assault, the longer the troops are exposed to enemy fire.

  A lot of commanders never learn that.

  Maj. McCloud fired the flares to signal attack.

  “FIX BAYONETS!” Capt. Kidd shouted, “ON LINE—MOVE OUT—FOLLOW ME!”

  Then he gave a loud, piercing rebel yell.

  The Rangers stood up as one, screaming, and began their attack—riflemen firing a round every time their left foot hit the ground, BAR men and Thompson gunners squeezing off short, crisp bursts. The 575th Rangers went straight in—the first bayonet charge by U.S. Army Forces in the Middle East Command in WWII.

  The only problem was, when the assault line reached the mud wall, the Rangers had to stop, throw grappling hooks over the top and scale the wall before continuing their history-making bayonet charge. The men discovered it can be tricky climbing up a rope in the middle of a firefight carrying an M1 rifle with a bayonet fixed.

  The Rangers resumed firing immediately after making it over the wall. The sound and fury of all the automatic weapons going at once was spectacular. Most importantly, the fire was so disciplined it gave confidence to the men as they began to make their way toward the objective.

  Capt. Kidd’s Rangers were going in for the kill and nothing could stop them now—only there was not much to obstruct their attack. Nearly all the Italians were hiding in the palm grove, and they had no intention of resisting, much less defending the fort.

  The rebel yelling picked up in intensity as the Rangers closed. If any of the Fascists were not already terrorized, they were now.

  In the flickering artificial moonlight of the 81mm parachute flares, the Rangers could see the ten-ton fuel tanker rolling toward Fort No. 9 up ahead. The troops were under strict orders not to fire anywhere near it—they had been briefed on what was about to take place. A Company’s assault line conducted a pause short of the main building, as planned before the final assault.

  No one was prepared for what happened next.

  Capt. Jaxx was at the wheel of the ten-ton fuel tanker topped off with high grade aviation gas. Lt. Coogan, aka “Dynamite Dick”, was in the passenger seat. There was a pressure plate on the front bumper that was wired to explosives mounted on the fuel tank.

  However, unlike when Col. Randal and Maj. McCloud did it the first time, there was no fuse burning on a land mine strapped to the back. Dynamite Dick was not about to ride in a truck full of highly flammable avgas that was wired to blow itself up with a fuse burning—being a highly-experienced professional, he had affixed a dead man’s switch to the land mine on the rear bumper.

  Lt. Coogan was holding the detonator in his hand like a grenade with the pin pulled. If he let go, there was a ten-second delay—then the truck blew. What that meant was that he and Capt. Jaxx did not have to guess how much time was left before bailing out.

  However, Capt. Jaxx still could not bump into anything. There was no delay on the pressure plate charge on the front fender. When it hit something—KAAABOOOM!

  And, a single tracer from Fort No. 9 could blow the thin-skinned tanker sky-high.

  Capt. Jaxx began to pick up speed, but he was not interested in going fast. When he jumped out from behind the wheel, he wanted the tanker to continue on straight and true. Slow was better for that.

  The gate came up ahead.

  The trick was to get the fuel tanker truck through the gate and bail out inside the mud wall surrounding the fort—without banging into anything.

  Visibility was good. However, the mellow-yellow light from the swaying parachute flares was a little spooky—sitting on a ten-ton incendiary bomb as the two officers were.

  “You good to go, Dick—standing by to hit the silk?”

  “Yes, sir,” Lt. Coogan said. “Do this kind of thing often in Raiding Forces?”

  “That’s a Rodge,” Capt. Jaxx lied. “Almost every day.”

  Jack Cool.

  Actually, he was about half-petrified—whose idea was this?

  Oh yeah . . . his.

  The sound of the concentrated gunfire from the Ranger’s assault line off to the right was deafening. The rebel yelling and blood-chilling screaming sent a shiver down the spine of everyone who heard it—on both sides. There was no let-up, even though A/575th had briefly paused the assault.

  Col. Randal said, “Let’s go.”

  He led the way—Capt. McKoy, Waldo and King walking down the road to Fort No. 9 following Capt. Jaxx and Lt. Coogan in the fuel tanker.

  Up ahead, Capt. Jaxx managed to drive the truck through the gate of the fort without banging into the wall on either side—which, under normal circumstances, would have been no big deal since it was double-wide. But riding in a ten-ton fire bomb with a detonator on the front bumper changes the difficulty factor.

  Unknown to Capt. Jaxx, after Raiding Forces’ last visit, the tenente had taken precautions to ensure that no one would ever drive a truck full of explosives into the main building of Fort No. 9 again. He had an obstruction erected.

  Not having much in the way of building materials, local Arabs were hired to make bricks out of the desert sand using an ancient technique augmented with a few bags of concrete.

  Then the workmen built a three foot-high wall directly in front of the garrison. This should have prevented anyone from crashing into the building. However, this was Libya and Fort No. 9 was located on the very edge of the Great Sand Sea.

  There is a lot of sand in the Great Sand Sea. The wind also blows more or less constantly. No one had bothered to sweep away the sand that blew up against the wall and, over time, it had virtually disappeared—buried almost to the top.

  Instead of a barrier, the sand now created a ramp.

  In daylight, Capt. Jaxx and Lt. Coogan would have seen the tracks that drove around the obstruction on both sides. But in the mellow, ambient light of the parachute flares, neither man spotted the tracks or the change in elevation of the road.

  That is, they did not see it until the last second before hitting it.

  “BAIL OUT,” Capt. Jaxx screamed, semi-hysterically.

  He went out one side of the open-topped cab, and Lt. Coogan went out the other side, letting go of the dead man’s switch in mid-air—which meant the fuel tanker was going to blow in ten seconds—no matter what.

  The tanker continued rolling up the sand ramp and sailed about six feet in the air from momentum before nose-diving straight down into the ground on the far side, setting off the pressure-activated detonator. KABOOOOOM!

  Incredibly, the aviation fuel tank did not explode.

  The back end of the massive truck was now traveling faster than the front. The fuel tanker stood up on its nose when the pressure plate on the front bumper exploded.

  Twisting like a steel tornado to the sound of screeching metal, the tanker crashed aga
inst the side of Fort No. 9, standing upright almost perpendicular and KABOOOOOM!

  The explosives on the rear bumper detonated.

  The blast created the mother of all fireballs, with the orange mushroom-shaped explosion billowing ten stories in the air. Fort No. 9 was engulfed in flames.

  Also unknown to Raiding Forces was that the tenente had taken one other precaution to defend his outpost.

  The last time Raiding Forces had arrived unexpected and unannounced, the tenente’s men hightailed it over the back wall to the palm grove the instant the fort came under attack. To give his troops added confidence that they had the means to defend the position and not run away, the commandant had stocked almost the entire ground floor with ammunition, grenades and mortar rounds. His thinking being, if another attack occurred, it was best to have the munitions inside the garrison rather than outside.

  That was a mistake.

  A massive secondary explosion tore through the building, blowing up and out the roof like a volcano, causing the second and third stories to collapse. Debris rained down for a long time. It seemed like no one inside could have survived.

  The Rangers ceased fire, stunned by the sight of their objective disintegrating before their eyes. No one had explained it to them like that. The Five-Seven-Five had never witnessed an explosion of such magnitude.

  Capt. Jaxx was lying in the ditch on one side of the road. He called over to Lt. Coogan, who was in the ditch on the other side, “You all right, Dick?”

  Lt. Coogan said, “What the hell just happened?”

  Capt. Jaxx said, “I think we got ’em.”

  Col. Randal’s command party strolled up as the A Company Rangers stormed in to search the ruins of Fort No. 9.

  “Looks like them Italian boys built their obstruction a little too low and a little too close to the house to do much good,” Capt. McKoy said. “Real poor preventive maintenance, lettin’ that sand pile up like ’at.”

  Waldo said, “I ain’t never seen a ten-ton truck stand up like that—made a big boom.”

  Col. Randal looked down at Capt. Jaxx lying semi-concussed in the ditch, “Whatever they’re paying you, Jack—it ain’t enough.”

  Capt. Jaxx said, “Anyone know how to check your blood pressure?”

  The tubby little tenente stumbled out of the rubble, leading his pleasantly plump mistress by one hand. Two of Capt. Kidd’s men immediately “captured” them at bayonet point. The Rangers prodded them over to where Col. Randal’s command party was standing.

  The tenente was not a happy camper—even though the couple’s survival was a miracle. Tonight was the last straw. The commandant wanted to surrender.

  He burst into tears when Col. Randal told him no.

  Col. Randal needed him to be there to tell the tale when relief arrived. No sense performing a drop deep behind enemy lines if the bad guys did not have an eyewitness to explain how terrifying “the sudden appearance of the entire US Seventy-First Airborne Division” was to experience.

  To make sure the tenente knew exactly who had attacked Fort No. 9, Col. Randal stuffed one of the cards printed by Colonel Dudley Clarke in the front pocket of his uniform. There was a large pair of US Jump Wings on one side and a message on the back: “Compliments of the US Seventy-First Airborne Division.”

  • • •

  “Have your battalion assemble on the drop zone,” Colonel John Randal

  ordered Major Travis McCloud.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Get me a good count,” Col. Randal said. “Load your heavy weapons and anyone injured in the three trucks. Then move out. King will be leading the march.”

  “Wilco.”

  “Captain McKoy,” Col. Randal said, “take command of the three trucks. Pick the AVG drivers you want and you’ll need a navigator.”

  “I know just the men, John,” Captain “Geronimo” Joe McKoy said. “Already briefed ’em.”

  “In that case, you and Waldo are cleared to roll out as soon as the trucks are loaded,” Col. Randal said. “Don’t wait for us. Keep going until you link up with Jack Merritt.”

  “Can do,” Capt. McKoy said. “See you when I see you.”

  “Captain Jaxx,” Col. Randal ordered, “have Lieutenant Hays and the I&R platoon fold in behind King in the line of march. You can travel with the platoon or with me. I’ll be on point with King—at least initially.”

  “Roger,” Capt. Jaxx said, gingerly climbing to his feet. “I’ll be with the platoon, sir.”

  “Lieutenant Coogan,” Col. Randal ordered, “inform Major McCloud as to the status of the demolitions charges you placed on the bomb dump—we don’t want to be anywhere in the area when it goes up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As King and Col. Randal walked back to the DZ, King asked, “How hard do you want me to go on the Rangers, Chief?”

  Col. Randal said, “Smoke ’em.”

  23

  FUBAR

  Colonel John Randal was in his third-floor suite in the small private briefing area. A big chalkboard was set up on an easel. He was diagramming ideas for the reorganization of Raiding Forces. This was approximately his third try.

  Captain “Geronimo” Joe McKoy and Waldo Treywick were sitting in chairs, critiquing his every move. The three were enjoying themselves.

  They had flown in from the desert early that morning.

  The Five-Seven-Five had been in for a rude awakening when it reached the rendezvous with Major Jack Merritt, fifty hard-marching miles’ distance from Fort No. 9. King had followed to the letter Col. Randal’s orders to “smoke ‘em.” The Rangers were all in when they arrived at the rally point—or they thought they were.

  Instead of a convoy to transport the tired paratroopers back to RFHQ, what they found was Sergeant Major Mike “March or Die” Mikkalis and eight hard-as-nails ex-Foreign Legion Raiders from Blue Patrol, all wearing their white Legion kepis and malevolent expressions.

  The sight of them standing at parade rest in the middle of nowhere when the Rangers marched in had a chilling effect on the officers and men of the Five-Seven-Five.

  Sgt. Maj. Mikkalis’ orders were to keep the Five-Seven-Five in the field for the next four weeks, conducting all manner of training necessary to provide the Rangers with the rudiments of desert raiding operations as it was conducted by Raiding Forces. Captain Mike “Mad Dog” Reupart would join the team of ex-Foreign Legion trainers in the next few days. He was training the fifty-man contingent of the new AVG volunteers, but Col. Randal intended to pull him off that assignment.

  The Rangers were more than a little shocked to learn that their training would take place behind enemy lines. And from the looks of the ex-Foreign Legionnaires, they were not in for a gentle initiation to the mysteries of desert warfare.

  B/575th Rangers were loaded aboard Maj. Merritt’s trucks to be convoyed back to Cairo. The plan was for them to be flown to the UK to the Special Warfare Training Center located at scenic Achnacarry, Scotland.

  They would undergo their desert training at a later date.

  All three companies would rotate through the Commando Castle one at a time. Col. Randal wanted his U.S. troops fully indoctrinated in all aspects of the art of small-scale, pinprick raiding. The U.S. Army’s training was not the equivalent of the British Commandos—he demanded only the best for the Five-Seven-Five.

  The Rangers had performed above expectations in the attack on Fort No. 9. Even though they had met limited resistance, it was still a complicated mission. Putting on a parachute, flying behind enemy lines in the dark of night and jumping on an enemy target is not for the faint of heart.

  The troops had held up well on the forced march, even though King had nearly marched them into the ground—to include Col. Randal, who had been regretting the “smoke ’em” order for the last twenty miles or so.

  Everyone in the Five-Seven-Five agreed that the trek was worse than the combat, which is one of the justifications for hard training. The troops would rather be at the f
ront in battle than safe in the rear, training.

  The two-day “Death March”—struggling to keep up with the Merc leading it—would go down in the annals of Ranger legend.

  What had looked like a rabble when the Five-Seven-Five came off the troop transport was beginning to jell into a cohesive fighting force. Col. Randal was not surprised. Troublemakers from a volunteer unit like the U.S. Paratroops often make outstanding combat soldiers—in garrison, high-spirited paratroopers become bored, one thing leads to another and they find themselves in the brig.

  The problem was going to be with the officers and NCOs. Col. Randal expected to find Airborne Command had taken the opportunity to rid itself of a lot of bad apples when the Five-Seven-Five shipped out.

  He intended to give everyone a fair chance. Then, those who did not measure up to Raiding Forces’ standards were out—plus anyone could quit at any time. The enlisted troops who failed would be assigned to the docks to work as stevedores unloading ships—the officers would go to Grey Pillars where they could push pencils and hang out at the Long Bar to their hearts’ delight.

  Col. Randal had issued orders to Sgt. Maj. Mikkalis to be brutal with his evaluation of the officers. Only the best would be allowed the privilege of commanding Raiding Forces troops. By best, he meant the top two percent.

  Col. Randal was quite sure that Sgt. Maj. Mikkalis and his merry band of ex-Foreign Legion sadists were going to apply the same standard to the Five-Seven-Five NCOs, only worse.

  James “Baldie” Taylor and Lieutenant Pamala Plum-Martin were waiting at the rally point. The two IMAM Ro.63s were concealed under camouflage netting. Col. Randal, Capt. McKoy, Waldo, Lieutenant Richard “Dynamite Dick” Coogan and King were to be flown back to RFHQ.

  Lt. Coogan was slated to marry up with Captain “Pyro” Percy Stirling in order to accompany him on a railroad busting patrol. There was a certain amount of angst about what might happen when those two teamed up, given Dynamite Dick’s initial showing with the ten-ton fuel truck. He had the makings of a big-bang man.

  Captain Billy Jack Jaxx had elected to stay in the field to spend more time with the I&R platoon. He liked what he saw so far.