Dust settled on the street, and the sounds of violence faded. Kurtzhals, recovering his composure, got back in the tank.
“Sergeant,” said Herrera. “I think someone’s trying to raise you on the radio.”
Kurtzhals picked it up.
“4, this is 1, come in, 1,” came Haskins voice.
“1, this is 4, still alive here.”
“Thank God for that,” said Haskins. “It’s not looking good out here.”
“Yeah, I hear you, 1,” said Kurtzhals. “Fritz’s banged up. Grizzly’s damaged—turret won’t traverse right. Sailors on the ground took some losses, too.”
“It’s just you and me, 4,” said Haskins. “Plus whatever dismounts you got left. Can you still meet up at RV Point Charlie?”
Kurtzhals paused, looking at his map.
“Roger; can be there in five.”
Grizzly limped forward, along with the surviving sailors. The streets had gone quiet—the destruction of the German platoon had cleared out whoever else might’ve been lingering.
As the men approached the RV point, a makeshift traffic circle, Kurtzhals heard an engine. Lieutenant Haskins’ tank, Shamrock, came out into the open, along with four SNLF sailors.
The SNLF men fanned out to secure the area. After a few minutes, Kurtzhals dismounted, heading toward Haskins’ tank.
Haskins got out, looking disheveled. The normally dapper lieutenant was battered, with a small cut on his head and his face caked with dust and grime. Kurtzhals noticed Shamrock was missing some of the tracks that had been on its right flank in the morning.
“So what happened, sir?” Kurtzhals asked.
“AT gun ambush,” said Haskins. “One of those big 88s. Got Borawski and Altshue, plus that SNLF squad that was with them. The American dismounts were pinned down and panicked. We lost track of them a few thousand yards back. Nakamura got taken out by an MG42. I’ve got four SNLF junior enlisted that don’t speak a lick of English following my tank around like lost baby ducks. I’m fixing to call higher and report that the mission failed.”
Kurtzhals let the words hang in the air before he responded. He took a good look at the lieutenant—the man’s confidence was sapped. He’s not thinking clearly, thought Kurtzhals. Time for some NCO business.
“Can’t do that, sir,” said Kurtzhals. “You know the stakes. Next unit to get here might take hours.”
Haskins sighed. “I know. I got a report back from higher. The radio station’s guarded by a pair of Panzer IVs, plus an 88 flak gun. That’s a lot of firepower against two wounded Shermans and the remnants of his Imperial Majesty’s whatever the fuck, too many fuckin’ syllables.”
“Sir,” Kurtzhals said, stepping closer. “I know shit’s rough right now. But these men are gonna be looking to you for leadership. Even the ones that don’t speak English, they know what defeat looks like, but they also know how to spot fighting spirit. Now we can sit here and wait for someone else to come along and do this job, or we can push forward. I know, technically, we’re combat ineffective, down to just two tanks. I also know that in war, time is everything. If we don’t move on this station, right now, and put boots to ass, the Krauts are gonna double, maybe triple up its defenses. We know they’re bloodied; we’ve got to push on.”
Kurtzhals saw Petty Officer Shimada striding over. The big man had been wounded and patched up—blood streaked the left arm of his uniform.
“Decision time, sir,” said Kurtzhals.
Haskins nodded. “You’re right, Sergeant. I’ll call up. We’re going in. Enemy’s a mile out, right?”
Kurtzhals grinned. “Not far enough away to save them from us.”
Shimada strode up.
“I…I have idea. Get Matoi.”
* * *
The former BBC radio tower wasn’t a tower at all, but a one-story relay, down in an unassuming neighborhood, some British bureaucrat’s brilliant idea to save money on real estate cost and perhaps invigorate what passed for the local economy. The ugly brick building was sturdy, and had electronics valuable for command and control. The Germans had fortified it—the 88 gun in a makeshift open-top bunker, facing east, toward the sun, and the advancing enemy. German pioneers had come in and cleared out most of the buildings nearby, establishing fields of fire, but only out to about 200 yards or so, owing to the difficulty of shaping urban terrain. Even the “open” area was covered with rubble and provided ample concealment.
The two Panzer IVs, in their desert camouflage, were bunkered in fighting positions on either side of the 88, facing northeast and southeast. The fighting positions concealed the damage to these salvaged tanks. Around the tanks, Germans moved in scattered pairs, shuffling through patrol routines.
Feldwebel Mark Krueger struggled to stay awake. His men had been on shift for a full day, knowing the Americans were right outside their gates. As the battalion HQ inside lost contact with their forward elements, Krueger and his men struggled. The fatherland demanded vigilance. Wish I had some of those pills the guys on the Eastern Front get, he thought. My gun and these panzers are the only hope this command post has against the Yankee armor.
He took a swig of his canteen as he heard something odd behind him—it sounded like something being dropped. He hurriedly grabbed his rifle.
“Steiner? Stransky?” he called out. He got silence in return.
He was expecting tanks. He was expecting airplanes.
He was not expecting the small, khaki-clad man who emerged beside him and plunged a bayonet into his throat. As he gargled away the last of his lifeblood, Krueger was at least grateful he could, at last, sleep.
Shimada’s infiltrators wreaked havoc on the 88 crew, stabbing and slicing the half-awake Germans. The perimeter sentries, with their throats slit, could not have warned them.
The 88 sat abandoned. Just to be sure, Seaman Tanaka and Seaman Ichiro smashed the optics with the butts of their guns, while Petty Officer Second Class Shiro Kitsurugi put a grenade down the weapon’s tube. The explosion tripped off the surviving Germans—something wasn’t right.
A pair of staff officers ran out of the command station, pistols drawn—they were cut down by SNLF fire. The entire station erupted into a frenzy of gunfire and confused shouts in German. Taking advantage of the chaos, Shimada motioned for his surviving troops to follow him.
He paused and fired a flare into the air. Hopefully, he thought, the Americans will see this.
Grizzly and Shamrock roared to life from their hide positions and floored it toward the enemy command post.
The two Shermans burst into the open at the same time—each facing their own Panzer. The four tank crews scrambled to engage each other in a deadly race.
The Panzers, aided by their fixed position, fired first. The first round popped straight through Shamrock’s hull flank, starting a fire in the engine compartment. Lieutenant Haskins and his crew bailed out, and moved to the cover of the nearby rubble as the tank burned down. The second went high over Grizzly’s turret as Matoi jerkily maneuvered the tank.
Grizzly returned fire, knocking an AP round straight through the northeast panzer’s turret side. The smoking hole confirmed a kill.
The southeast Panzer fired, and the round smacked through Grizzly’s left hull. The AP round shredded Matoi and Fritz up front, and blew through Spataro’s left leg.
The gunner screamed in pain, but still worked the manual traverse, bringing the gun to lay on the Panzer IV.
“Fuck you!” shouted Spataro as he hit the trigger. The 75mm AP round smacked straight through the side of the hull, destroying the enemy Panzer. Smoke billowed from the ruined tank.
Kurtzhals jumped out on top and looked to see infantry approaching—scattered in ones and twos, as the remnants of the enemy staff hurriedly evacuated the field HQ. He had two dead crewmen and one wounded. In the hatch, Herrera was still dutifully loading an HE round, and Spataro, wheezing in pain, was working the gun.
Kurtzhals did the math. There was at least two squads of Ge
rmans outside. They were split up. His HE shell could take one, but then it was a question of math. Barring divine intervention, his tank was done.
Salvation came from his right flank. Shimada’s men emerged from an enemy trench, opening fire, catching the enemy soldiers on the move. The Germans stopped and hit the dirt, reacting to the flanking fire.
Big mistake.
The Sherman’s gun tracked right over their heads, not 50 yards away.
Spataro didn’t wait for the fire command, he just triggered the round. The HE round exploded, killing the suppressed soldiers.
Kurtzhals nearly cheered, only to remember the dead men in the front of his vehicle.
“Play it calm, men,” he said. “There still could be more Germans out there.”
As the battle calmed down, there was a knock on the turret. From the periscope, Kurtzhals could see it was Shimada.
Kurtzhals opened the hatch and grinned.
The big Japanese Petty Officer grinned back.
“We did it,” said Kurtzhals. “We fuckin’ did it.”
The Japanese Petty Officer just put his hand out.
“Kurtzhals. Sasebo now.”
Kurtzhals grinned and shook his hand. The tankers and infantry treated their wounded the best they could, and waited for an enemy counter-attack that never came.
Over the next few hours, follow-on forces moved in. The first rung in controlling Cairo was secure, and the Oahu Pact won the opening salvo of the Battle of Cairo. Over the next two weeks, the battle lines shifted as the Oahu Pact forces encircled Rommel’s consolidated Afrika Korps. Dramas like Grizzly’s saga replayed themselves over and over again throughout the next two weeks of fighting, and countless lives were lost over objectives big and small, but at the end, the only flags flying over the city were the Stars and Stripes and the Rising Sun.
* * *
Ruins of the Former British Embassy, Cairo
April 18th, 1944
General Douglas MacArthur kicked aside the scrap of the Nazi flag that once adorned Rommel’s Afrika Korps command, pausing to take a puff off his corncob pipe and pose for a photo. In the background, Colonel Kemp and Commander Bailey directed aides to set up the new command post.
The flashbulb captured the general in the ruined German command center, triumphant, and, as always, picture-perfect.
“Thank you, Stacy,” said MacArthur. “Damned fine photo for a damned fine war. Took our boys weeks to do it, but they did it, by God! Colonel Cleveland, let’s have an update.”
“Sir,” said his aide. “We’ve confirmed it—Rommel is in full retreat. He can’t mass forces to meet us in the open, and he chose to withdraw rather than be encircled. He can’t stomach the bleed of any more prolonged city fighting or a siege. And, according to these files we found, we got him just in time.”
The aide offered over a set of folders. Written in German, MacArthur just scowled.
“Son, just cut to it—what do they mean?”
“Corps attack, sir, right at our staging areas. Supposed to begin a day after we struck.”
MacArthur chuckled. “Yamashita was right.”
“It’s nice to hear you say that, General,” said Tomoyuki Yamashita, doffing his cap as he walked up, flanked by SNLF aides. MacArthur noted that several of them wore IJA ranks—technically forbidden by the Imperial government at that echelon.
“Admiral, good to see you,” said MacArthur.
“I think, in these circumstances, I may be called general,” said Yamashita, with just the barest hint of a smile. “Tokyo won’t find out, and for an old army hand like myself, in the aftermath of such a battle, the distinction matters. Let’s just keep me and my staff out of your pictures.”
The man knows the value of image, thought MacArthur. I can certainly respect that.
“Your men acquitted themselves well over the past week,” said MacArthur.
“As did yours, General. The Germans fancy themselves different than the Filipinos, the Chinese, and the Koreans,” said Yamashita. “They are not. Once one understands this, it is simply a matter of applying the lessons we learned against the others.”
“How’d you know Rommel was going to attack?” asked MacArthur. “Seems to me like it would’ve been better to hold out, play the long game.”
“Not Rommel’s style, General. Not mine either.”
“Hmmph,” said MacArthur. “I suppose so. We made a great call either way.”
Yamashita decided not to correct the general. The American was preening; this was important to him.
“He’s like a peacock,” muttered one of the Japanese aides as a photographer took another picture.
“Maybe so,” said Yamashita. “But we need him.”
“That,” said his aide. “Is a good description of the Oahu Pact.”
Yamashita smiled at that as another flashbulb popped.
* * * * *
Phillip S. Bolger Bio
Philip S. Bolger is an army veteran who left active duty service to work as a cog in the Military-Industrial Complex while pursuing his passion for writing. “Fighting Spirit” is his third published short story, and second examining the Oahu Pact timeline. His debut novel, the Urban Fantasy adventure "The Devil's Gunman," was released in January of 2019. In his free time, he enjoys history, wargames, and pen and paper RPGs. He lives in the heart of Northern Virginia with his partner, Victoria, and their two dogs: Robert the Bruce and Francois Guizot. Philip can be reached at [email protected].
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An Orderly Withdrawal by Taylor Anderson
A Destroyermen Universe Short Story
Details of all the major battles of the Great War against the Grik, Dominion, even the fascist League have been exhaustively recounted in the years since the old Asiatic Fleet “four-stacker” destroyer, USS Walker, brought me to this “alternate” Earth. However, Allied historians have hardly yet touched upon innumerable other notable actions for various reasons. Most are likely less attractive to chroniclers because they were smaller, somewhat obscure, perhaps less “significant,” though I’m sure they were profoundly important to those who fought and fell in them, not to mention others who unconsciously benefitted from their sacrifice. One stubborn rear-guard action in particular was especially vital to myself, Legate Bekiaa-Sab-At, and perhaps General Kim’s entire Army of the Republic, though we were scarcely aware of it at the time. It—and the brave participants—certainly deserve more than a meager footnote or passing reference, so I’ve taken it upon myself to recount it here.
Note: I mean no offense, of course, but I’ve substituted the term “Lemurian” for the more proper “Mi-Anakka” in the interest of clarity, even though members of that species in the Republic of Real People didn’t call themselves that at the time, and many still resist it.
Excerpt from Courtney Bradford’s The Worlds I’ve Wondered
University of New Glasgow Press, 1956
“They’re doing what?” demanded Prefect Soli-Kraar of the 7th Legion, Army of the Republic of Real People, her frizzed tail arching incredulously—challengingly—behind her. “Sir,” she added hastily, lowering her tail and blinking embarrassment. She’d struggled to cope with a lot over the last few months, advancing (through attrition) all the way from the rank of junior centurion to legion prefect, a post she wasn’t remotely prepared for. Now, the heaviest Grik artillery barrage the roughly six hundred survivors of the legion ever faced had put her even more on edge. That was no excuse for her outburst, however. The 7th was depending on her, and so was the human crouching close in the rough, hastily-dug trench.
I must keep it together, she thought.
The human Colonel Zhao, commanding the 7th Legion and acting legate for the entire 11th Division, grimaced sympathetically, implying Soli’s tension was entirely understandable. Especially considering what he’d just told her. His first attempt at a reply was annihilated by another flurry of heavy Grik roundshot hammering the hasty brush and earthen breastworks heaped in
front of the trench along the southern bank of a dry, rocky riverbed. Dirt and gravel rocketed up around bounding cannonballs, blanketing the area in a choking, pinkish dust haze that already covered the mustard-brown battledress and new “platter” style steel helmets worn on the line. The dust had given every human the same color skin, Lemurians and Gentaa the same color fur, and at a distance all would appear identical if not for the fact about half of them had tails.
Colonel Zhao coughed and wiped reddened eyes with a field scarf as the cracking impacts moved off to either side. “At least they’re not using their new exploding shells,” he observed in a clinical tone. “Perhaps they haven’t any, reserving them to oppose our ally’s advance up the Zambezi?”
Prefect Soli hawked and spat gummy, almost blood-colored phlegm before waving a furry hand to the north. When she spoke again, her tone was more level but just as skeptical. “But…but the enemy’s there, right in front of us! The whole Grik army!”
Colonel Zhao shook his head. “Apparently that’s what we were supposed to think. General Kim no longer does. As you know, Legate Bekiaa-Sab-At and her Fifth Division marched to discover the enemy flank to the west. They found it,” he stated grimly, “or rather it found them, and now the legate has quite a battle on her hands. Her reports, combined with aerial reconnaissance, convinced General Kim that we face only a—admittedly large—blocking force here, while most of the Grik have been groping for our flanks.”
Zhao paused while Republic counterbattery fire shrieked overhead and pounded enemy positions barely 500 meters away. Geysers of earth, scrubby brush, and fragments of Grik vomited into the sky. The Grik would always outnumber them, but the Allies had better weapons. The Republic in particular had far superior artillery.
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