by Scott Palter
His companions were clearly better pilots than he was. Rank couldn’t change that. The older of the two led the flight. He kept them on a level heading as the enemy slowly rose to meet the red tails. When the Nationalists passed fourteen thousand feet, the first Tuskegee plane started its dive. The second followed, with Davis bringing up the rear.
There was a clear pattern to these fights. Davis had been given firm instructions. Use his speed advantage from the dive for a fast shooting pass, but keep going down. When he had dropped at least two thousand feet with no one on his tail, start the long loop back up to repeat the process. The moment he saw an opponent during this, dive again to shake them. Run away back to base if necessary. He was the worst pilot in the group. He was only in the air to gain familiarity. Most important, whatever he did, pay no attention to the other two Freedom Flyers. Davis needed all his attention on flying his plane, maintaining his navigational fix, and keeping his tail clean.
Davis thought he’d hit someone on his passthrough. He was pretty sure he hadn’t been hit in reply. The controls didn’t feel like his P-26 was damaged. One enemy plane peeled off after him. Davis increased the angle of his dive a bit and started turning towards home. The hostile clung to his tail but wasn’t gaining on him. Probably the fuel differential. By now both planes were below five thousand feet and still descending. Davis momentarily lost his navigation lock. He aimed for the river. He could see it ahead. He knew his landmarks on it. He was down below a thousand feet and almost up to the river when he saw one of his memorized way points. A set of commercial buildings wrecked in the Japanese battle to take the city, and not yet cleared or rebuilt. The locals used pieces for projects of their own, but no one would do the public service of clearing the lot of more than they needed themselves that day.
Cutting out over the river, Davis broke left upstream. His foe hadn’t gotten close enough for a real shot. Davis kept his heading. The Nationalist had a surprise waiting. Half a mile ahead, Davis flashed past a Freedom brigade outpost on a three-story flat roof. The guys there knew the color schemes. He was friendly, so what was chasing him wasn’t. The hostile P-26 ran into four M-2 heavy machine-guns filling the air over the river with lead. He pulled away trailing smoke. This guy wasn’t making it home. Davis went another mile and turned left to his main runway a half mile further. He made an easy landing. His guys were back twenty minutes after. Both planes were full of bullet holes. They were claiming two definites and a probable.
Davis had already gotten the Chinese liaison officer to work. He was getting the word out. The Yanks would pay for the crashed planes. Find them, guard them, and send messengers. Help the retrieval team, and on the return to Wuhan a nice pile of green US dollars was yours. If you preferred goods or food, just give a shopping list and it would be along in a week or two by river steamer. The wrecks were a great source of spare parts. The American way of war treated money as a weapon. They had it and their opponents did not. Wasn’t a matter of patriotism anymore. Both sides were now Chinese.
0700 hours local; 0600 hours CET
22 October 1940
Headquarters Afrika Division, southwest of Bagush Box and in the rear of Italian XXII Corps line, Alamein position
The conference tent was a mix of service uniforms. There were Army, Waffen SS, SA, Navy, Air Force, and NL all mixed together among the battalion and regimental commanders of this thrown-together division. Lothar Engels sat there in shock. In this reorganized structure he was now a battalion commander in Kampfgruppe Germania.
General Steiner was explaining the new organization to everyone. “Forget the original table of organization. We have one complete unit, the Baltic regiment. That becomes the core of Kampfgruppe Baltic. The three Baltic battalions plus a fast battalion of armored cars, motorcycles and motorized infantry. A company each of anti-tank and antiaircraft guns. A navy-manned battery of French 75’s. A company of Sturmpioniere from the navy. The Baltic infantry had seen some action in the prior battle at the salient, so the Kampfgruppe isn’t all green. Kampfgruppe Germania is not so lucky. We have bits and pieces from the regiments that are supposed to make up the rest of this division. Out of this we have four ersatz battalions of motorized infantry, a further battalion each of motorized machine-guns and light mortars on loan from Kampfgruppe Jodl, a Sturmpionier company from our friends at the Palestine Camp Complex in the General Government, and a fast battalion of armored cars and motorcycles. No motorized infantry this time with the fast troops, but instead the fast battalion has an air force battery of eight-eights, again on loan from General Jodl’s force. Our naval friends have provided a good signals company for each Kampfgruppe and an extra one for divisional HQ. Also Brigade Strauss has gifted us with a fine veteran officer, Sturmbannführer Engels.”
Lothar acknowledged the mention by coming to full attention and giving a slight bow at his general. He was vastly proud of his promotion – and at a loss as to how it had happened. Steiner was droning on about a third Kampfgruppe, designated Tirpitz, built around the artillery regiment and a battalion of naval infantry, all of these troops Kriegsmarine personnel. Lothar’s ruminations came to an abrupt halt as he heard Steiner mention his name again, “ – Sturmbannführer Engels will now share with us his impressions on fighting the British in a mobile engagement.”
Talk about being unprepared. Some fool should have warned him. He walked slowly to the front and began to speak, trying to keep a steady voice instead of once again letting his anger get the best of him. “My experience was as a company commander in a mixed fast battalion similar to what I will now be commanding. Four good companies, two fairly large, but no real maneuver training on working together. The British were brave. They attacked often and pressed the attacks longer than circumstances deserved. Their battlefield reconnaissance was poor – ”
His new regimental commander interrupted him. The man had an SA uniform with an Oberführer’s insignia, and seemed to be in his forties. “Poor how? Please be more specific.”
“They didn’t send forward scouting elements. They didn’t even do reconnaissance by fire. They would send a mixed group of tanks, Bren gun carriers and sometimes motorized infantry forward until they ran into us. Half the time the infantry never left their trucks before the engagements were over. They would fight until they took real losses and just pull out. When they left, they all left. They didn’t leave observers behind to plot our movements or call down artillery.”
Several people in the audience laughed. One said, “So they are idiots?”
Lothar couldn’t quite see who was talking. He was focusing on his Oberführer, and Steiner the divisional commander. He was also working overtime on his temper. He didn’t want the old explosive Lothar to ruin things for him. “No. Their higher commanders simply don’t respond well to mobile conditions. Mobile war takes fast reactions and constant focus on everyone’s shifting positions. My battalion commander had this. The British field officers didn’t.”
Steiner was looking at him carefully. Lothar paused to let the general speak. “You respected your old commander?”
Ah. Lothar understood the problem. Someone had gossiped. Probably Steiner had sent someone around to his old company. One SA man to another, one of his Sturmführers would have told the story of the epic blowup. Told it making Lothar look better and the boy Major worse, but a new commander would be wary of why a unit had been trying to rid itself of a veteran commander before a major battle. “I didn’t then. The fault was mine, sir. I’m old. He was young. He had been HJ before joining the NL. I’m an old fighter from the SA and couldn’t bring myself to take an 18-year-old seriously. I’ve had time to reflect on my temper. It’s bad. It’s a fault I am working on correcting. Major Steiner taught me a lot of how to make mobile war work. Once I got over being pigheaded, the lessons were worth learning.”
Now the room was paying rapt attention. Lothar was quite unused to important people taking him seriously. They never had before in his life. “Do go on, Sturmbannführer.
” This time the command was again from the Oberführer.
“Major Steiner always had motorcyclists out in all directions, almost as a screen. Mobile war is like war at sea that way. The terrain here doesn’t give you landmarks. The sand and dust blows. You have to at all times be prepared to be attacked from any direction. You must also remember that holding terrain is meaningless. If facing a clearly superior force, give ground to preserve the integrity of your command.” Lothar made sure he had General Steiner’s full attention. He fixed his gaze on the general and continued. “Before you ask, this is where I had my falling out with my old commander. I was too much the brawler. Wanted my armored cars to slug it out with British tanks. I lost good men and several Panhard armored cars doing this. Afterwards, while I was on detached duty with the repair section, my Major prepared a chart for me. It showed which weapons could penetrate the frontal armor on which vehicles at which ranges. He was right. I would have done more damage to a British cruiser tank using a sledge-hammer than the small cannon I had. I’m an old dog, but he forced me to learn some new tricks. There’s no going back there. I showed far too much disrespect. But I can use what I was forced to learn, to benefit this command.” Lothar actually felt good admitting all this. Maybe it was never too late to grow up a bit.
His new Regimental commander wasn’t buying this conversion. He seemed to be wishing he still had bullheaded Lothar the brawler. “So now the SA runs away from a fight?”
“Sir, no one said run. Our eight-eights can beat any tank in Africa. So can the 7.5 cm guns in the other Kampfgruppe. The trick is to maneuver the British into range of those. Failing that, you pull back before the tanks, while shooting up their support vehicles, the Bren gun carriers and trucks. You can then maneuver behind the tanks. Armored cars can damage a cruiser tank from the rear. It needs to be fairly close range. But the British are pugnacious. They will keep coming at you until bloodied fairly badly. So it isn’t that hard to lead them to the field guns.”
Lothar had to keep from laughing. After one battle that almost got him court-martialed, that should have gotten him drummed out of the SA as a mutinous fool, he was now the voice of wisdom to a Division. God help them all when the offensive started.
1400 hours CET
22 October 1940
Eichmann’s office, Palestine Camp Group Complex, west of Crakow, General Government, and east of the Auschwitz camp complex
The next visitor thought he rated special treatment. Eichmann was besieged by entrepreneurs, influence peddlers, and oddball hustlers six days a week. Had he been willing to work on Sundays, it would have been seven days a week. He reserved Sunday for family life and sport. His wife understood his need for routine and diligence.
The businessman arrived promptly. He was immaculately dressed, with an expensive watch and (to Eichmann’s taste) far too much personal jewelry. Even his belt and shoes were an exotic leather, some form of reptile. The petitioner was attempting to project an aura of success.
His letters of reference were equally ostentatious. A letter from Admiral Canaris testified to the gentleman’s valuable work for the Abwehr in Bohemia and Poland in 1938-1939. A sheaf of letters from Party officials showcased his high connections within that bureaucracy. Eichmann had become a connoisseur of such. He noted that they were all from the General Government, the Bohemian Protectorate, and two border Gau’s from the Reich itself. Nothing from the Party’s national level, much less the actual Party Ministry in Berlin. Finally there were a dozen senior Wehrmacht, Waffen SS, and Police reference letters. Eichmann saw as good or better multiple times a day. Everyone wanted access to his pool of skilled labor and camp complexes.
This man had a slightly different set of unrealistic expectations. He had two major factories in Cracow. One was an enamel works making soldier’s mess kits as well as kitchen supplies for the civilian market. It also had two production lines making ammunition. The other was a large printing works. He also already had his labor force, a mix of Jews and Poles. His problem was that he was housing and employing several thousand Jews outside the proper camps or ghettos. This had always been forbidden, and those rules were month by month being more aggressively enforced. “It’s like this. I have a few guards. I need papers from you designating my facilities a subcamp of your Palestine complex. I would of course be properly grateful. There would be no expenses on your side. I can pay the guards out of my own receipts. They just need armbands making them official auxiliary police. I can even arrange their weapons and something that could pass as uniforms.” The man looked at Eichmann expectantly. Eichmann returned a level gaze and said nothing. The man dropped four diamonds on the desk. Eichmann was no gemologist, but presumed they were of value. Eichmann still gave no response. The man sighed and added his watch to the proposed bribe.
“Put your idiot bribes back in your own pockets. I like my head where it is, firmly attached to my shoulders. My wife is also quite fond of it there.” The slick operator seemed to deflate. He gave a half-smile as if to say it had been worth a try. Eichmann pounced. He pulled out a street map of Cracow. “Mark your locations. Production, warehousing, the sleeping accommodations, everything including where your guard posts would go, what street traffic would be blocked, and the like.”
The man looked at Eichmann strangely but did it as bid. Eichmann looked over the map. No streetcar lines were blocked. No major truck routes were inconvenienced. Eichmann took out a red pen, adding changes to make the district more cohesive, mostly by adding eight more buildings. Buildings that had nothing of any economic or military importance. Eichmann’s map of Cracow was quite detailed, and updated weekly. “You see the eight added buildings. Find some use for them. My accounting staff will see that they are seized by administrative fiat. You will be informed of their monthly rental. You will also have a one-time expense of moving whoever lives there, plus the businesses from the commercial space. For what you ask, the fee is six thousand marks a month as a guarantee against five percent of your gross receipts. You will also take a company of my guards, to whom yours will report. Your men can see to the prisoners and premises. Mine will see to the perimeter security.” The man’s eyes were half bugging out. Eichmann laughed at him in a scornful tone. “No bribes. My accounting staff will have full access to your records and billings departments, keys for all locked desks, office safes and the like. You will be billed for all of this monthly. You pay by check to the Palestine Camps Complex Main Administrative Fund, Dresdner Bank, Main Cracow office.” Now the man was shaking his head as if to wake from a dream. “Whatever stupidity you do with your Party, Wehrmacht, and Waffen SS connections is your affair. I put you on warning, Herr Oskar Schindler, if I ever catch you offering so much as a pfennig to any of my people, it will be the last day of your talentless life. I’ll shoot your wife in front of you, then hang you at the entrance to your plant. The New Germany does not tolerate corruption. My superior, Reichsführer Heydrich, executes Gauleiters. We less exalted people should take that as a warning. Now explain to me why you use Poles mixed in with your Jews?” A quite chastened Schindler spent a further half hour explaining the details of his operation. Eichmann thought to himself that if this ‘businessman’ couldn’t find what to do with the new facilities, Eichmann could find other small operators who would be glad to sublet. He doubted Berlin would notice the extra money, but either way his hands were clean. Bribes? Was everyone an idiot these days?
0300 hours local; 0200 hours CET
23 October 1940
Observation post a few yards to the rear of British 7th Malta Division lines, Alamein position
A sit like this was boring in the extreme. Sergeant Billy Lincoln didn’t care. He had been getting a bad feeling about things. Last time he had gotten these sort of feelings was March, 1918 in France with the Fifth Army. In his time on the Western Front, the Germans didn’t attack. They counterattacked. Except that felt different. All sorts of little things were odd that March, and Billy wasn’t a deep thinker. So he’d gotten
his squad started on elementary preparations. Which had saved their lives when the hammer fell. He and some of his lads had made it back to the final British line after a hellish week.
Now he was getting the same bad feeling. It was all little things. This time everyone knew the attack was coming. But the toffs were all sure it would come on the southern half of the front. Front ran 7th Malta Division, 6th Commando Division, 8th Palestine Division. The actual brigades and battalions had been truly scrambled, but the command arrangement remained. Southern brigade of the 7th, where he was, should have been out of harm’s way. The only action was patrols and raids being run by some Palestinian ‘special unit’. Billy would have thought that Malta would have cured the staff idiots of special units, but it seemed they needed more lessons.
Billy prided himself on being a survivor. He’d parlayed a thirty-six-hour pass into tracking down the officer he had met on Malta, Lieutenant Commander Money-Penny. Man may have been a gentleman, but at heart he was the sort of thug Billy could relate to. Money-Penny heard him out. Told Billy to sit down. When the talk was done, Billy went back to his unit with papers transferring his squad to Money-Penny for some ill-defined special detail.
The detail amounted to monitoring these raids for Money-Penny. Who decided to view this one with Billy and two of his lads. The gentleman had brought containers of tea laced with brandy, decent meat pies and some other snacks to while away the time. Billy’s lads couldn’t quite understand how their long-serving pal Sergeant Billy had managed this magic, but it sure beat being in the lines living on bully beef. “Billy, is it always this sloppy?”