Three Kings (Kirov Series) (38 page)

The
difficulties of
operating in the desert soon became all too apparent to Rommel and the troops
of the fledgling Afrika Korps. Those first days on the new continent, walking
along the broad streets of Tripoli, amid the bleached white stucco buildings
were long gone. Then they were warriors arriving in a new land, full of
optimism and vigor. The road move to their jumping off point at El Agheila had
not been that arduous, but once actual operations started, the trials of desert
combat were before them. Now they faced the empty wasteland, with maps that
were far from accurate, dust and blowing sand everywhere, and Rommel’s hot
pursuit driving them on like a lion tamer with a whip.

Soon his single division was
strung out all across the desert, meeting little resistance beyond an
occasional Jock Column or a small delaying force of a few 2 pounder AT guns.
The Italian
Ariete
division bulled its way up the
main coastal road, followed by two corps of motorized and leg infantry. The 5th
Light swung south and east, hoping to cut off the British retreat.

He did not realize, in those
hectic first moments of his offensive, that dark eyes were watching his
progress, and the Generals in OKW were thinking what to do about it. His
military instincts drove him on, and he pushed his men and vehicles hard to
achieve the position he wanted.

Yet his enemy was too crafty and
had not fallen into his trap. The British pulled out quickly, and started to
retreat, with the infantry heading for Benghazi, and the remnants of 2nd
Armored division cutting across the peninsula towards Tobruk. There the British
retreat consolidated around that fortified port, with the armor attempting to
reorganize to the south of El
Adem
, protecting the
port from a turning maneuver.

Wavell had managed to scrape
together a few Indian motorized units and send them west to try and bolster the
situation, and he was getting the 9th Australian Division ready to board the
trains. That and the 2nd New Zealand Division might be enough to hold, and now
he saw that the naval situation preventing the transfer of these good troops to
Greece may be a boon in disguise, if the Royal Navy could survive what they
were now facing.

The problem now was Rommel. How
fast would he come east, and how far would he try to go? And what had happened
to General O’Connor? Would the Russians make good on their promise to find him?
As reports stacked up, Wavell wished he had the plucky General at his side to
plan the defense. Now all he heard was one report after another of Rommel’s
advance. He was coming at them like a bad desert storm.

* * *

O’Connor
had heard him
coming when he listened to the opening rounds of the battle, and he knew he did
not have enough men and material in hand to stop the German attack, and the
prospect of any further advance on his part to Tripoli was now out of the
question. So he turned what was left of the 2nd Armored Division over to
General
Neame
and answered the call from Wavell to
fly in to Alexandria for a conference. The German fighter that took a bite out of
his plane en route would prevent his timely RSVP, but when the plane went down,
he was thankful that he had survived without any serious injury beyond a
bruised ego. He seldom gave that any mind, and now his only thoughts were set
on how to make contact with friendly British patrols before the Italians found
him. He knew they still had a garrison at Giarabub, but also that there were
elements of the British 6th Australian Cavalry at
Siwa
.

The storm that had helped to
bring down his Blenheim was still raging, but he thought it best to get away
from the wreckage of the plane, even though it was the only shelter available.
He and the only other survivors, the pilot and navigator, set about gathering
up supplies, flares, water, food, and they took one solid meal in the plane,
waiting out the worst of the sandstorm.

“The Italians might have seen us
go down,” said O’Connor, “but I doubt if they’ll be too keen on investigating a
wrecked plane in this mess. That said, when the storm abates, we move out on
foot.”

“But the radio is gone now, sir,”
said the pilot. “How will anyone know where we’ve gone if we can’t report?”

“Where else would we go our here
but south to
Siwa
?” O’Connor was squinting at a map,
his eyes still full of energy. “But I think we’ll come at it by a roundabout
way. If I deduce that’s our only play, I won’t put it out of the question that
the Italians might also. So when we move, we’ll head east first, towards that
escarpment at the southern end of the
Qatarra
Depression. From there we can work our way south to
Siwa
.
And I’m afraid we shall have to move while the wind is still up, gentlemen.
That way it will blot out any tracks we might leave. One man can carry the
survival tent and cooking kit. The others lug all the food and water we can
carry. I’m not sure where we are, but I can damn well navigate if I have to.
You can back me up, Mister Monk.”

Isaac Monk was the navigator, and
he nodded. “I’ve a decent sun compass and time piece, sir.”

“Monkey will get us where you
want to go, General,” said Bowers, the pilot. “Just you lead the way.”

It was tough going at first, as
they left before dawn with the wind up, as O’Connor suggested. They soon found
that walking in the desert was no easy task. When the ground was sandy, it got
into their boots and shoes, and their feet would sink into it to the point
where they felt they were struggling through mud. When it was stony and hard,
the rocks presented sharp, jagged threats, and it was tough on ankles or knees,
particularly when they would stumble or fall, which happened all too often.

As they trudged along, O’Connor
took the lead, tapping out a brisk pace with his riding crop as he went,
seemingly tireless. Six hours later the other two men were near exhaustion, and
so the party stopped to rest and take some light nourishment. O’Connor wanted
another six hour march before they set camp for the night, but a second storm
seemed to be brewing. He decided to press on, until the blowing sand forced
them to stop two hours after mid-day and rig out the survival tent.

There should have been plenty of
daylight left, but the skies were blood red with the desert dust, and it almost
seemed that night would be upon them soon. They could barely see in any case,
the sand stinging their faces and eyes. That night they rode out the storm,
huddled in the cold tent while the conference at Alexandria concluded, and the
fleet put out to sea. They were still holed up when the KA-40 was also forced
to land, but some hours later O’Connor thought he heard the approach of
vehicles.

“Look smart, gentlemen,” he said
rousing himself. “There’s movement out there. I’m afraid we’ll have to move
too, and quickly. But at least knock down the tent. That way it won’t be seen
if these are Italians, and I think they must be.”

So they moved on foot again, with
no time to break down and stow the tent beyond knocking it flat. But soon the
sound of vehicles grew louder, and they were forced to go to ground, hoping
they had not been seen. But the well schooled eyes of men who were out there
looking for them had found their quarry, and it soon became apparent that they
were going to be discovered.

“Stand ready men. We’ve only the
three side arms, but if things go the wrong way here, keep a steady hand and
make every shot count.”

Thankfully, he did not have to
lead this last little defensive action, for when the vehicles appeared he saw
they were the jeeps of the Long Range Desert Group. The lead driver waved as
they came up in a billow of dust.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes!”
said the navigator, Monk.

“Well met, gentlemen.” O’Connor
was pleased to see the men, but took in their shabby appearance and made a
mental note to have a word with them later. The men were unshaven, uniforms
filthy, and looked to be self-styled military vagabonds.

“We’ve been looking for you,
General. Sergeant Galloway here, and these are Lance Corporals Cokes and
Jewell—Signalman Simpson there in the back.”

“Signalman?” O’Connor took a long
disapproving look at Hector Simpson, his beard so long that the other men had
taken to calling him “JC,” Jesus Christ.

“Then you have a radio?”

“That we do, sir,” said Sergeant
Galloway.

“Good then. We’ll want to get a
message off to Alexandria and let them know you’ve found me.” He stopped,
looking over his shoulder when he heard the sound of more vehicles approaching.

“More of your boys, Sergeant?”

“No sir, we’ve just these six
jeeps, and those sound like armored cars.”

“Armored cars? That must be the
Italians out of Giarabub. There were no armored cars available on our side for
work out here, as you well know. It was all we could do to keep 2nd Armored
running up north. I couldn’t even spare a single Wellington bomber to support
Fergusson. We only had two! Well now, can we outrun them?”

Corporal Cokes was already
pulling back the bolt on the machinegun mounted on the jeep, but it was going
to do them little good, for other eyes had been out searching that day as well,
noting the long column of dust that seemed just a little too thick where the
jeeps had come up.

* * *

They
were not human eyes,
but the sensitive infrared sensors at the nose of Lieutenant Reeves’ scout
column in the 12th Lancers. The speedy Dragons moved, with lightning speed,
fanning out in a wide line abreast to envelop the contact and prevent its
escape.

It was then that both O’Connor
and Reeves got a real surprise, for it seemed there were British armored cars
operating in the desert after all, but the like of which he had never seen. And
for Reeves, it seemed that the story that odd Popski impersonator had told him
about the General’s plane going down was true—impossibly true.

His column of Dragon IFVs pulled
up surrounding this new group, yet when he made the P.A. announcement, stating
he was British Army, he was surprised to hear cheering from the small group of
vehicles they had come upon. That in itself was a bit of a shock, as the locals
here had little welcome for them whenever they patrolled outside the Sultan
Apache perimeter zone.

One thing led to another, and he
was soon on foot, questioning the men, as he had the Russians. There was one
among them that all the others deferred to, a short wiry man with grey white
hair and an officer’s cap. He carried a riding crop, which he tapped
incessantly at his thigh to emphasize anything he said, and he was wearing the
uniform of a serving British officer. Reeves could clearly see the rank as
well, a Lieutenant General!

He stared at the short energetic
man in front of him amazed, because he knew the history of the desert war very
well, and this man was the spitting image of General O’Connor, just as that
other fellow had been the image of Popski. He passed a fleeting moment,
thinking this new catch might be in league with the others, a grand theater, a
re-enactment group, but why would anyone want to come out here and play at
World War Two? Here? Now, with the whole world going bonkers in another very
real and deadly war?

The Lieutenant started with a
brisk salute, more to the rank than anything else. These men might be
imposters, like the last group, but he would play out the game and see what he
could learn. Yet the man’s answers made no sense, mentioning names like Wavell
and Cunningham, all long dead, and making the grand claim that he was, in fact,
commander of the British XIII Corps in the Western Desert!

“Just who the hell are you,
Mister Reeves?” said O’Connor. “12th Royal Lancers aren’t even here in Africa
as far as I know. And how in the world did you manage to trade in your old
Morris CS9 for that!” He pointed at the Dragon IFV, clearly amazed.

Reeves found his interrogation
had quickly backfired on him, as the sheer force of O’Connor’s will and
determination seemed to carry the moment. He rode out the storm of words,
waiting for this so called General’s questions to abate like he waited out the
blowing sand to get this mission started. They came one after another: Where
did he get that vehicle? What in bloody hell was he doing out here wearing the
patch of the Desert Rats on his shoulder, when that division was back at
Alexandria refitting? Did Wavell send him? Was he a new unit? How many men were
in his column? … and on it went as if the fellow thought he was out here to
fight the last war, his great grandfather’s war, settled long ago with the
blood of another generation on these cruel desert sands. In the end he simply
held up his hand as if calling for a truce.

“Easy does it,” he said to
O’Connor, strangely bothered by the odd notion that this man seemed so
completely authentic in his role that he could be the real thing. “I have
orders to report all contacts,” said Reeves, “and to get anyone found out here
to the rear of our column. Perhaps you’d best tell your story to my Brigadier.”

O’Connor’s fate line was redrawn
that day, when the history resounded with a strange echo, enacting his
disappearance and capture right in the midst of the first German offensive. Yet
there was one dramatic difference—he had not been captured by the Germans of
Ponath’s
8th Machinegun Company, but by a bemused
Lieutenant in the 12th Royal Lancers, in a British Army that would not exist
for another 80 years.

Reeves elected to do the only
sensible thing he could think of at that moment, and pass the problem along to
the officers above his pay grade. So he radioed in to Brigadier Kinlan, and his
report came at a most opportune time.