by Scott Palter
“Do go on.” Lothar and the Oberführer looked up and froze. Their Division commander, Felix Steiner, had arrived for a visit – accompanied by the Italian corps commander, Electric Whiskers. “No wonder the SS has eclipsed the SA. When this is over I suggest you two get a room in a Cairo hotel. You can beat each other senseless, with the winner getting to use the loser like a woman. Oh wait, we have to take Cairo first. Defeat the British. I seem to recall something about that. Idiots! You, Oberführer Idiot, remain silent at the position of attention. You, very recently promoted and thus easily reversible Sturmbannführer Engels, please give a report. Simple words, and nothing about your homoerotic dispute with your superior.”
Lothar did so, quickly and without moving a muscle that was not involved in speech. The Italian general was shaking his head sadly. Steiner asked Lothar, “So, by accident you have destroyed weeks of planning? Instead of the multi-day combat we planned for, we have been handed the south end of the British line at no cost and days ahead of schedule?” Lothar allowed himself a brief nod. “Thank you for being honest enough not to claim any special credit for yourself. So unusual these days. Every success has ten thousand fathers. Next time, however, when you send a Gefreiten back to the divisional quartermaster company with a requisition for 110 uniform blouses and trousers, a note explaining that you had taken on new recruits might have been helpful. Our quartermaster had heard of SA proclivities in sexual matters, and presumed that over one hundred of your enlisted men had destroyed their full uniforms in such amorous wrestling.”
“Sir, one hundred ten was a guess. I can certify ninety-three, but my superior insisted on my presence here instead of letting me exercise proper supervision of my companies. I know more have been enlisted since then. We also have over three hundred prisoners that I know of, so probably over four hundred in total. I need to turn them over to proper Italian authorities.”
“Italian?”
“They distrust the treatment they will receive at German hands. A number have been prior guests of ours at Dachau et cetera. They would rather not fight at all, but if that means being guests of our camp system, every one of them prefers fighting under our colors instead. Sir, if you don’t trust them, we could always gift these Jews back to my old brigade, Strauss’s.”
“So you let prisoners dictate to you, Engels?” Steiner had a smirk on his face as he said this.
“Herr Division General, policy is that all prisoners be turned over to Italy in this theater. The Führer mandated decent treatment by the laws of war until then.”
“Ah, so you do remember policy? Perhaps there is hope for you yet.” Steiner’s tone did not indicate that he saw any such hope, even if his words conceded that possibility.
“Italy will be happy to find employment for these men.” The Italian General knew enough German to follow. “This many men make a small labor Battalion. There is always work in the rear. Roads, buildings … ”
Steiner had heard enough. “Oberführer, you will have to live without your boyfriend. He and his two units are no longer a part of your command. Dismissed!”
Lothar remained at attention. He was fairly sure the general was not done with him. Steiner wasn’t. “Yes, you have ruined higher planning.” Steiner gave a little laugh, almost as though he was stifling himself. “These British minefields will have to be rendered harmless, with the deactivated mines gathered for our own use. Stay here for forty minutes or so till I can get supply officers up from Corps and Army to mark the routes they need cleared. Your one-armed Jewish pioneer officer used to be a soldier of the Kaiser. Means he can speak passable German. You are Reichsdeutsche and clearly know our tongue. I have a draft of seven hundred HJ’s. They were to replace the battlefield casualties I now won’t have. You two will teach them mine clearance during this new operation.” Steiner could see a puzzled look on Lothar’s face. The man simply wasn’t all that good at blank face. “Sturmbannführer, when we plan a battle we submit an allowance for casualties. These seven hundred were to replace my losses in the combat you just arranged for our Division to avoid. Oh, and congratulations on not beating that fool Oberführer senseless. I’m told he’s competent as a Company-grade infantry officer. I can clearly see he’s a dunce beyond that.” Steiner paused as a smirk came across his face. “Your Pioneer Company is now a Pioneer Battalion. The combined unit is now its own KG, reporting directly to me. Needs a name. KG Haber. A Jew who served Kaiser and Reich well. You’ve been labeled Jew-lover, and the slur will stick. Best you earn it.” Steiner walked away shaking his head, laughing very softly. Lothar just stood there. He had wanted to learn the techniques of Pioneering. Now he was a Pioneer officer. What a war!
1400 hours local; 1300 hours CET
30 October 1940
Headquarters 8th Army, behind Alam-el-Halfa Ridge
The staff officers tried to put a brave face on things. G.O.C. Cunningham wasn’t having it. “Whose brilliant idea was all this?”
His chief of staff had not exactly come up with the idea. However, he had done nothing to block it. So it was, by normal protocol, his responsibility. “Sir, there was a logic to this. The Palestinians were the most expendable of the combat battalions we have. The rebuilds of the battalions off Malta won’t really fight. Everyone knows it. It’s why we have allowed so many to be pulled off the line for rear-area security. The Palestinians have fought. We just took the two with the least favorable battle reports from the prior skirmishes, and creamed out the most usable men. All they had to do was force a serious German offensive. We’d have gotten them out of harm’s way the first night after Jerry’s Big Push.”
Cunningham worked hard at keeping his temper. He failed. “You regarded them as expendable – and made sure they knew it, when you creamed off the Anglo Hebrews. The ones originally from the UK, US, the Commonwealth. You took all their artillery and their supply reserves. You put squads and platoons in company strongpoints. You never precisely told them how long they had to hold. You didn’t even leave proper British officers in command. And you are surprised that one unit ran up the white flag? They don’t trust us. You knew that, and validated their worst fears.”
“Sir, should we have left two British battalions to do this?”
“Damn it, yes. Get this through your heads! This won’t be the last rearguard we drop off to buy us time between here and Khartoum. Rearguards only work if they are actually motivated to die to buy the rest time. The Jews would have done that to protect their own in Palestine. Here? I’m not that stupid for you to sell me this story. Get it through your heads! This is the last field army the Empire has left, outside the Home Islands. You will not be allowed to throw it away flattering your social prejudices. I don’t care who wouldn’t let a Hebrew into their London Club. I am indifferent to how many of you feel, after a prior tour of service in Palestine, that the Arabs were given a raw deal having Europe’s Jewish Problem dumped on them. Round up what is left of those two battalions. Send them on to Cairo Command as security units. They for sure won’t stand in battle line again anytime soon. Post them to Fleming’s Brigade. He’s got enough odds and sods. Be sure the armored car brigade is properly screening the vacated sector. Anyone who cannot faithfully do this, can be apply to be relieved. You can all be returned to regimental service if you so desire. My staff will show some brains, if I have to replace every one of you three times over. Dismissed!”
2000 hours local; 1900 hours CET
30 October 1940
Headquarters Italo-German Panzer Army, in the rear of what till this morning had been XXIII Corps lines
The meeting room was overcrowded with staff officers and couriers. The one fan was fighting a losing battle against late-day heat and the humidity produced by too many primates packed into a space with quite poor air circulation. In theory this was a meeting of the army commander and the three corps commanders involved in the current offensive. Then the fourth corps commander was added as a gesture of politeness. The subject was attempting to salvage a ba
ttle plan ruined by unexpected premature success.
The Panzer-Armee operations officer was just finishing the latest update on lanes through the former British positions. Most of Steiner’s Afrika Division and the first of Messe’s XX Corps were through. They were somewhat marking time, for fear of coming up on the prepared British positions on the east-west ridges piecemeal. That could open these two forces up to a British counterattack before the rest of the Army could arrive. “So we are now three days ahead of schedule?” German Corps Commander von Manstein was not as pedantic as the national stereotype would tend towards. But he did like precision. “Had we ever finally agreed on what the scheduled start date was?”
His Army commander General Geloso conceded this. “We generally knew it was to be within the next fortnight, probably within the next four days. We never had firm agreement on how long breaking this section of the front would take. Every Corps supply chief was waiting for one or two more shiploads of supposedly crucial supplies before we began. Logistics people – they are necessary, but never fully satisfied.”
“So now what?” Manstein’s mentality was geared to operational matters. He had staff people for the rest. He was not oblivious to supply and administration in the manner of a Rommel. He had been such a staff officer, solving such problems for his commanders. That was what proper staffs did. He chose good staff officers, men with family histories and strong service records. They would let him know the limits within which he would orchestrate his battle. Similarly he had faith in his two Divisional Generals for this battle, Hausser and Steiner. Forget the silly uniforms they wore. Both were good Reichswehr officers with decent records – although not the absolute best, which were men of his own class. He actually trusted both better than that prima donna Rommel.
Geloso rapped out dispositions to each Corps: “XX Corps will advance into position Division by Division, with General Steiner shielding Messe’s eastward flank. Steiner will go into line when Hausser comes up to take over flank protection. General Jodl’s artillery will follow in support of the two German divisions of your Afrika Korps. XXIII Corps will follow last, assuming flank guard. This KG Haber will work with XXIII Corps until no longer needed, at which time it will return to its parent Division unless otherwise directed by yourself as Corps Commander. The French brigade is Army reserve.” Geloso saw the French general pretending to be Kellermann, start to rise in protest. “Don’t have this argument with me. I received a request from Vichy to minimize your losses, in light of France’s new African War with Britain. You remain a reserve force until I am in receipt of a countermanding order from your government. If I were they, I would save you for the pursuit up the Nile, after which you could march on Chad from Khartoum.” Geloso paused to be sure he had everyone’s full attention. “Let the staff people bicker over times and phase lines tonight. We will meet again tomorrow – say, 1000 hours – to review their proposals. General Dalmazzo, please remain behind for some administrative matters. I want to be certain these British raids on your front don’t disrupt the main battle plans.”
After the rest filed out, Geloso asked his own staff and the XXI Corps staffers to leave so the discussions could be ‘frank and open’. They left, thinking Dalmazzo was about to get a dressing-down. The two Generals shared a glass of brandy and then got to the point. “You still think this Di Salo can be trusted?”
“Sir, we risk nothing finding out. All my staff has done is a series of hypothetical plans. In theory, they are preparing contingencies on the British attempting to exit the trap we are setting by attacking west through our lines. They think my hypothetical is absurd, but it’s all routine planning. I think Di Salo is sincere. The skirmishes keep happening. Rommel is rotating fast groups as support for these skirmish forces. If Brigade Strauss breaches the line, I will send you the code words ‘Julius Caesar’. If Rommel follows through, ‘Mark Antony’. If my general offensive follows, ‘Ptolemy Cleopatra’. First Libyan Division will drive hard for Cairo. May they count on airborne support?”
“Two Battalions the first full day after the breakthrough occurs. If the Germans do a proper investigation, they will find that these forces were on alert for a Cairo mission but no one knew what day. I will not have notified Rome until after this all happens … or doesn’t. I do worry about leaks. Once this all happens … ” Geloso caught himself. Best be cautious. “If this all happens, I will send a senior officer to the Marshal and the Prince. There will be enough glory to go around.”
0530 hours local; 0430 hours CET
31 October 1940
Cantonment of the Palestinian raiding force, 1 mile to the rear of 7th Division lines, north end of Alamein position
It would be dawn in less than an hour. The small convoy of trucks from the south had been hopelessly lost. Ordinarily, Sergeant Billy would have left them to founder. His long service history in the Great War and then the interwar Territorials had long taught him that no good deed goes unpunished, so volunteer for nothing. Now that he was working for Mr. James it was different. Any time he wanted to get he and his lads out of something, he had written orders from some Major General excusing them because of some top secret posting. He’d been pressed on precisely what an NCO with a dozen or so lesser rankers knew, that a major or colonel could not. Mr. James had schooled Billy well. The correct response was to say, ‘call my officers’ – Mr James who was almost impossible to locate, and the general had a staff that would never bring him to the phone. Billy was not even sure the general really existed. Didn’t matter. A major general trumped anyone screaming at him.
The truck convoy was full of English-speaking Hebes, creamed off from some operation down south in 8th Division sector. An operation that had lost that entire stretch of front, per what Billy picked up. Once he had offered his services as guide to the raiders camp, the major in charge had gleefully taken Billy and a few of his lads on. Billy had been given space in the cab of the lead truck while three of his new hires, as it were, followed on motorcycles. Billy had other handy pieces of paper allowing him to impress men for his ‘special mission’. He’d gathered up half a dozen youngsters who wanted out of the trenches, and claimed familiarity with motor bikes. Mr. James had somehow conjured up the vehicles, a collection of prewar models from a score of nations. He and Billy used these to send couriers back and forth to Gisht Ari Pasha’s mansion in Alexandria, which was Mr. James’s current headquarters.
Billy’s job was information. The exasperated staff major in command wasn’t about to give him any. So Billy bided his time, until everyone piled out at the raider’s domicile. He went fishing by ear, listening for British accents among the new men, especially those old enough to have been through the mill under Haig. Hit paydirt with his fourth try. Man had been a sergeant-major in that war. Manchester Regiment. Different battalion than Billy’s, but it made a start at a connection. Billy had good English fags and a few bottles of a decent beer from Alexandria. House brew from some dive called the Spitfire, down near the docks. Mr. James sent it back by the caseload. It was currency, up where Billy operated.
“We was pulled out of our units by some staff twit. It was like they wanted to be sure the lads left behind knew they were being written off. Seems some of them ran up the white flag before the damned Nazis could even attack. What did the staff idiots expect? Two battalions holding a front built for four brigades. Battalions creamed out for their best men, especially officers and NCO’s. Half the ones I left behind in my company would have started walking home to Palestine as soon as it got dark.”
“When you move there?”
“Good question. Went as a tourist in 1923. It was a dump. I went home after six weeks. Decided I’d rather be a stinking Kike in Birmingham and still able to sit at my favorite pub where they knew me as a decent bloke who had been through the mill with them in Flanders, who worked down the road where half the regulars did. Then came the Crash. Made redundant. Had an insane Zionist second cousin. He found me a job in Palestine. I came over as British,
not as a Jewish settler. Place I worked had a contract fixing trucks for the army and the Palestine Police. Special Branch knew I was a Jew by blood but I never made a big deal, so they didn’t.” Billy could read between the lines. Man had been a low-level informer. “Loyal to king and country I was. Then Winston had two brigades of Jewish Palestinians stood up. Nice man from army recruiting came around. Had my army records from the Last War. ‘Suggested’ I volunteer. I allowed myself to be pushed, and here I am. Detailed off to some idiot collection of Haganah zealots for suicide trench raids. I caught a piece of it when the trucks were being boarded. London’s pushing for raids to show ‘offensive spirit’, or some such rubbish. The damned gentlemen want a body count. They make me go out on one of these, I’m showing the white flag myself first chance I get. Half the lads with me will do the same. Raids to do what? We spent four years the last time proving that raids don’t accomplish shit beyond running up the death toll.”
“Haganah?”
“Marxist militia the Labor Zionists run. Think Independent Labor back home. Not quite Bolshie, but cozy up to them. Not my type. All my kind want is British peace and quiet. If that means no new immigration, so be it. I’ll let them claim I’m Church of England if it keeps the stupid ragheads happy. I was listed C of E when I enlisted in ’14 after the news of Mons. My recruiting sergeant refused to hear answers beyond a few Low Church sects and C of E. Not that it mattered. All the chaplains were C of E and church parade was compulsory in my battalion. When we went in south of Arras in ’18, I’d have taken blessing from any sky pilot, even a head-hunter with a bone in his nose. Those damned storm troops were tough. Lost half my company in a hour, to gain maybe 40 yards. Damn. I’m too old for this cack!”