by Bill Walker
Michael detected a note of bitterness in the man’s voice that made him uncomfortable. The question bothered him too, as did his friend’s semi-drunken glare.
“I don’t think—”
“Come on, Mikey, what’s the big secret, here? Tomorrow we’re both going into the mouth of the beast. I’ve a right to know what we’re going to be doing.”
“There’s a briefing tonight. I’m sure all your questions will be answered.”
“Fuck the bloody briefing, I want to hear it from you.”
He was right, of course, he had every right to know. They were on the same team, weren’t they? And unlike when they first met, this was not something under the cloud of secrecy. Nobody had specifically ordered him not to talk.
Thorley took another gulp of the date beer. This time he barely noticed it going down. “All right, it’s like this....” He went on and explained why he’d been sent to Egypt, leaving out his mission to Finland, and how they would be getting closer to Rommel’s Afrika Korps than any patrol had ever done thus far, and why. When he was done, Brady leaned back in the chair and whistled.
“Christ, Mikey, you mean to tell me that it’s just going to be you and this radioman creepin’ up on old Erwin?”
“We can’t risk the rest of the patrol,” Michael said slugging back the rest of his drink. He slammed the empty earthen mug onto the table. “You and everyone else will be about two miles behind us.”
Brady leaned forward, all evidence of intoxication suddenly gone. “It’s madness. You’ve got to have at least one other man to keep an eye out—watch your back, for cryin’ out loud. You’ll both be occupied, him with the radio, you listenin’. What if you’re spotted?”
“Then it’s better that only two are captured.”
“Killed, you mean.”
Michael didn’t respond to that, preferring not to think of the worst case. “It’s not up to me, Corwin.”
Brady slouched back into his seat, disappointment and frustration plainly evident on his face. “It never is, Mikey. We signed on for the duration and they’ll do whatever they want with us, even if it’s the stupidest thing possible.”
Brady finished his drink and they both stood up, Brady leaving a few Egyptian coins on the table. After dinner that evening, all those patrols not already out in the field met in Rest House, and each was briefed on its assignment. When it came to their patrol, Thorley kept his eye on Brady, afraid the headstrong Irishman would voice his protest about his mission. Fortunately, he kept his own counsel, but Thorley could tell it was eating his friend up inside. Strangely, a part of him wanted Brady along, figuring the man’s presence would bring him luck. His practical side knew it was a foolish thought. Two men would travel faster than three.
Everyone turned in early. After making sure the letter to his child remained secure in its hiding place, Thorley went to bed. It took him a while to find a comfortable position on the hard floor. His head throbbed from the date beer and his mouth tasted musty. After a while he drifted off, the sound of the desert wind in his ears.
Chapter Twenty-One
The patrol left Siwa at six a.m. heading northwest toward Giarabub, which they reached late in the day. The town lay in a small depression on the edge of the Great Sand Sea, and where Siwa was pleasant, Giarabub was dismal. Aside from the domed mosque where the founder of the Muslim Senussi sect lay buried, there was little else, a collection of squat buildings that appeared ready to collapse at any moment. Flies and mosquitoes were everywhere, buzzing their faces relentlessly.
The patrol found sanctuary in an airplane hangar abandoned by the retreating Italians some months before. Fitzhugh hopped off the lead truck. “We’ll stay the night here. I want everyone to stay close at hand and for God’s sake don’t even think of drinking the bloody water.”
While others went to the oasis, Thorley used the time to get to know Byron Wilson, the radioman who would be trekking across those last two miles to Rommel’s base near Hatiet el Etla.
A warm and humorous man, Thorley took an immediate liking to him. After small talk, Wilson showed him the radio. It was remarkably compact, arranged in a backpack format for ease of carriage, yet it weighed almost fifty pounds. “It’s the batteries, you see. They’re more than half the weight of the blighter.” He then went on to show how both he and Thorley would have a pair of headphones to listen in. Wilson would home in on the frequency of the signal and Thorley would verify that it was the correct one. “The last we’ve been told is that the tanks are using 27 megacycles. It’s a low frequency on the 11-meter band and it has to be ‘line of sight,’ or we’ll never hear it. That’s why we’ve got to be up their bums on this one.”
“How long do the batteries last?”
Wilson shrugged. “Oh, if you left it on continuously...about half an hour. The valves suck up a lot of juice.”
That meant they would have to be judicious about the radio’s use, survey the situation, and wait until the traffic became heavy. That might take hours, and they would be vulnerable to detection the longer they remained in position. “What about spare batteries?” Thorley asked.
Wilson shook his head. “We’ve got a total of four. Two will go with us; the other two stay with the patrol. We can’t risk taking them all because these same batteries run the main wireless. Without them we’ve lost our ability to report back to Siwa. If that happens, we might as well turn tail and head back.”
The rest of the day crawled by and the men grew anxious. Fortunately, someone had a deck of cards and they all occupied themselves playing Whist and Old Maid until nightfall. Dinner was another stew and quite forgettable.
The next morning, the trucks pulled out of the hangar and continued the journey north. An hour out of Giarabub, one of the trucks broke an axle in a sink hole, and the stores and men had to be redistributed to the other five trucks, necessitating a delay of several hours in the broiling sun.
It was noon when they began moving again. They were now in Libya proper in the area known as Cyrenaica. Vast and trackless, it seemed to Thorley that this is what the moon would look like if it had an atmosphere. Hot, dry, lonely, and silent. The trucks found a flat area, picked up a bit of speed and Thorley eased himself down into the stores, prepared to sleep away some of the monotony.
The Macchi C.202 fighters came out of nowhere, streaking overhead at what would have been treetop level. One moment the desert had been as quiet as a grave, the next the two planes roared overhead, banking to get a better glimpse of the patrol. Several of the men waved, but something about the way the pilots flew their aircraft gave Thorley a bad feeling. He turned to Wilson, who lounged next to him. “Get the Vickers out.”
Wilson scrambled to his feet and tore off a tarpaulin. The Vickers Gun was a relatively light tripod-mounted machine gun that fired .303 caliber bullets at the rate of 450 rounds per minute. Primarily produced for use with tanks, the LRDG found it extremely useful on their patrols, especially for road watches.
Thorley kept his eyes on the Macchis as they each did a split-S and came around facing the patrols head on.
They were making a strafing run!
“Get that bloody gun cocked!” Thorley screamed.
He heard Wilson curse and then the sound of the bolt pulling back and slamming home. Ahead and behind him, Thorley heard others pulling out their guns, but his was the only one battle-ready.
The Macchis began firing from half a mile out, their 12.7mm Breda SAFAT machine guns blazing. He saw the muzzle flashes before he heard them, and the bullets striking the desert floor, kicking up plumes of sand in straight parallel lines that raced toward them.
“Fire!” Thorley shouted.
Wilson wasted no time. The Vickers chattered, and he pivoted the gun as the Macchis blurred by.
“Jesus C—Christ!” Wilson stammered, eyes wide with terror.
The Macchis rolled and came on again, Bredas roaring. The guns from the other three trucks joined Wilson’s and Thorley saw a smattering of hi
ts in the engine cowling of one of the planes, bits of debris flying off. Black smoke streamed out, and the plane nosed to the ground, exploding into the sand in a large orange-black fireball. The pilot never had a chance.
Sobered, Thorley watched the other plane make a pass without firing. Someone from one of the other trucks yelled out: “Go on, you yellow Eyetie bastard, turn tail like you all do!”
It was almost as if the pilot had heard. Instead of going off the way he’d come, he turned for one last pass. He came in lower this time, as if daring them to hit him with their Vickers.
Suddenly, Thorley realized Wilson wasn’t firing, he turned, ready to scold the man and froze. Wilson sat back, his hands still on the trigger, a neat half-inch hole drilled through his forehead. Behind him the canvas tarpaulin was spattered with gore. The worst of it wasn’t the blood and the brains, it was the tiny smile of surprise frozen on his face. Screaming, Thorley tore Wilson’s hands from the gun and began firing, following the Macchi as it flew by. It was a lot like the skeet and trap shooting he’d done as a young boy with his father in the Midlands. One just had to lead the bird and let him fly to meet the projectile. Instead of waiting for it to make another strafing run, he waited for the plane to pass by. Aiming just ahead of the nose, he squeezed off the last of the magazine. He watched, amazed, as the .303 slugs tore into the side of the Macchi, raking down the fuselage in an almost perfect line. For a moment it seemed that it would have no effect, and then in a bright flash the plane disintegrated. Hundreds of pieces plummeted to the ground.
The men cheered.
Wilson had been a good man, and now he’d spend eternity in a lonely grave far from his family and friends. It was all too bloody much. Thorley reloaded the Vickers and stowed it away. He then set about wrapping Wilson’s body in the tarp stained with his blood.
“You all right there, Thorley?”
He looked up and saw it was Fitzhugh, a look of solemn concern on his face.
“I’ll be okay.”
“Right. I’ll send someone to help you with Wilson. We’ll stay here tonight. I don’t think we need worry about the Eyeties any longer.”
He walked away, his head bowed.
At sunset, the men gathered and buried Wilson, his beret lying atop the shallow mound. They stood around it in a semicircle and Fitzhugh pulled out a tiny dog-eared Bible and read one of the Psalms in a voice heavy with emotion.
Next came dinner, though no one felt much like eating. It was Fitzhugh who brought up what no one wanted to voice.
“Right. With Wilson done in, there doesn’t seem to be much point in going to Hatiet el Etla.” The flames from the fire reflected in his brown eyes, making him look demonic. “We’ve no one to operate the radio. We’ll get a good night’s rest, and in the morning, we’ll head back to Siwa.”
“Excuse me, sir, but how about letting me take a crack at it?”
It was Brady who’d spoken. Thorley thought he looked uncommonly grave. Then again, what was there to be jocular about?
Fitzhugh frowned and stared back at Brady with an intensity that would have made most men look away. Brady met his gaze head on. “You have radio experience?” Fitzhugh asked. The tone of his voice belied his suspicions.
“I’ve enough to get Mikey and me there and back with what we came for, and not make this whole patrol and Wilson’s life a bloody waste, if that’s what you be gettin’ at.”
Fitzhugh’s jaw clenched and Thorley could tell the older man was angered by Brady’s brash remarks. But he couldn’t help admiring his friend’s audacity. He also noticed the others were nodding in agreement.
“Has anybody checked the radio for damage?” Fitzhugh asked.
That prompted two of the men to run off and retrieve the radio and bring it back to the fire. He motioned for the two men to hand it to Brady.
“Let’s see what you can do with it.” Fitzhugh said, his gaze level.
To his credit, Brady studied the panel for a moment and then reached for the “on” switch. A jeweled red light went on as did a light behind the frequency dial. A moment later the hiss of white noise could be heard through the built-in speaker. He then twisted the dial until a stream of Italian issued forth. He listened for a moment, then said. “That’s radio traffic from Italian Headquarters in Benghazi,” Brady said. “Heard enough?”
He switched off the radio and zipped it back into its carry pack. Fitzhugh still looked unconvinced. “Obviously you found that quite by accident. We can’t afford lucky accidents out here.”
“Excuse me, Lieutenant,” Thorley cut in, “but there won’t be any lucky accidents, as you put it. I know the frequency we’ll be monitoring. We’ve come this far, let us have a crack at it. And as Corwin said, it’s better than turning tail.”
Fitzhugh caved in, throwing up his hands. “All right,” he said. “Let’s just hope we don’t get caught with our pants down again.”
The next morning, they all voted to forego breakfast so they could make Hatiet el Etla by midmorning. Their last intelligence put the bulk of the Afrika Korps about five miles north of the town. They decided to skirt the tiny settlement on the off chance that any Germans might be in the town. By noon, they were as close as they dared to get. Now, it was up to Thorley and Brady to hike the rest of the way on foot.
They waited until after lunch when the sun began to wane, then they set off. Brady carried the radio, and Thorley carried the compass and the spare battery, as well as the food and water for the both of them. By Fitzhugh’s estimation, Rommel’s tanks lay in a shallow depression due north from where the patrol had set up camp. The hike, though only two miles, felt like two hundred. The weight of the stores they’d taken, enough for two days if needed, began to take its toll on Thorley’s body within the first half mile. Part of the problem was the terrain. Extremely rocky, it took longer to go a given distance because one had to step carefully over and around the countless obstacles strewn in their path. And then there was the relentless heat. They could only take so much water, because of weight and rationing. Already, Thorley could feel his throat crying out for it, knowing that if he gave in too soon, they would run out.
For his part, Brady appeared to be in his element. He moved over the rocks like a mountain goat, his pace never flagging, a continual grin on his face. They reached their destination at three o’clock and found the tanks just where intelligence said they would be. Putting down their supplies, both men crept to the top of the rise and looked over. Down in the depression they counted over three hundred tanks parked in even rows across from an equally large area filled with tents. They could see hundreds of German troops going about their business.
“Go get the radio,” Thorley said.
“There won’t be anything now, Mikey, they’re all parked.”
“Let’s try it, anyway.”
Brady shrugged and slid down the rise. He returned a moment later with the radio in hand. Unzipping the front of the carry pack, he erected the special antenna with its neatly coiled length of copper wire, turned the radio on and the two of them huddled around the speaker as Brady tuned the radio to 27 megacycles. There was nothing but static.
“I told you, Mikey,” he said, flipping off the radio. “Sure as God’s in his Heaven, they’ll be firing up those tanks come morning. That’s when we’ll hear something, if there’s anything to hear.”
They spent the night huddled next to each other for warmth, proximity to the enemy making a fire impossible.
The sun was creeping over the horizon, casting its crimson light across the steamy desert, when both men awakened to the sound of hundreds of tank engines revving. Grabbing the radio, Thorley and Brady scrambled up the small rise. The German camp was breaking up, tents folded and thrown into the backs of trucks, men running every which way shouting orders. From their position high overhead, it resembled a busy anthill. The tanks began pulling out of their neat rows and into formation for traveling.
“Blast this infernal thing!”
&nbs
p; Thorley turned at the sound of Brady’s curse and saw him tinkering with the radio. A stab of fear pierced his heart.
“What’s wrong?”
Brady looked up from the radio, a sneer curling his lip. “This bloody contraption has decided not to work, that’s what’s wrong!”
Thorley decided to leave well enough alone and turned his attention back to the tanks. From his vantage point, it looked as if Rommel was sending the tanks north, toward Tobruk, but that was a guess, and not a very educated one. Still, unless they got the radio working, they would have very little else to report.
“Got you, you little bastard!” Brady said triumphantly. “Radio’s up, Mikey.”
Brady tossed him the headphones, which he plugged into the jack and then placed onto his head. He nodded and waited as Brady tuned the dial to 27 megacycles. From what little he knew of radio, there could be a thousand working frequencies between 27 and 28 megacycles, all with separate conversations going on. It would take a steady hand on the dial to tune into them all. What worried Thorley were the odds involved in actually hearing what he came to hear, odds that someone would actually talk about it over the air, unlikely at best. If they did, Thorley might miss it simply because he wouldn’t be listening on the correct frequency at the precise moment it was spoken. It was obvious the Panzer units were moving out of the area. That meant they would have perhaps half an hour, forty-five minutes at most before the last tanks were out of range. And that would be that, for there was no way for them to shadow the tanks on foot. And the patrol would be vulnerable if they tried to follow as a unit. It was clear they would just have to muddle through.
Thorley held up his hand as he heard a flash of conversation. “Go back, slowly.”
Brady barely tweaked the dial and the headphones squawked to life. “Anton Übermut Nordpol, Dies ist Zachari Fünf. Verstanden? Aus.”
The reply came back tinged with static. “Ja, Dies ist Anton Übermut Nordpol. Ich habe Verstanden. Nächster Punkt Viktor. Aus.”