Crescendo Of Doom (6 page)

One minute he was on the plane talking with Feldmann over the drone of the engines, then the wild fall, and now the relative quiet of the desert night. Three planes had fallen of the nine, and as cruel as his fate had been, it was better than that which had befallen the men on those stricken JU-52s. Two other men fell close to him, and he started for the nearest, knowing his job was now to collect his company as best he could, and get them into a position to make an advance on the town.

It was going to be a very long night.

Chapter 5

Fedorov
heard the planes in the sky, his eyes squinting into the inky night as he saw the first rockets fire. The mobile force had landed at Raqqah several hours ago, ready to concentrate their full force to try and seize the airfield and bridges over the Euphrates. To their great surprise, they found the settlement largely empty of enemy troops. Most all of the French garrison there had been pulled south to the renewed fighting around Nebek, north of Damascus. Only a few desert cavalry units had remained, and when the sleek X-3 helos made their first runs over the town, this last remnant was soon taking to anything they could ride and hastening away as fast as they could.

After overflying the airfield, the team descended there, the Russian Marines storming out in four groups led by Troyak, Zykov, Chenko and Popski. They fanned out, quickly securing the tarmac and hanger area, and then making their way into a few buildings that served as an administrative facility, and a squat makeshift control tower. They found the base empty, but saw signs of recent occupation, even a cup of tea that was still warm in the admin building offices. Apparently the French authorities had also made a hasty retreat.

“We’ll need to make sure there’s no fifth column still in the town,” said Fedorov. “When the Argonauts land, we should sweep the whole place, but I want to see the bridges first.”

Troyak led the way, with Zykov’s team in support, leaving Chenko and Popski to hold the airfield and guard the vital KA-40. The X-3s lingered above, until they had satisfied themselves that there was no threat near the town. Then they made for the airfield to set down, and the Argonauts soon reinforced the ground teams with another thirty men led by Lieutenant James Byng. A distant relation to the storied Earls of Strafford who bore that family name, Byng was all military. He came to the Fairchild security team aboard
Argos Fire
after a five year stint with SAS, a tall, well muscled man, sandy haired, trim, and thoroughly professional.

Popski met the man at the airfield, admiring the black suited Argonauts as they assembled there.

“Half the Russians have gone off to have a look at the bridges,” said Popski. “The place was all but deserted when we arrived, but we can’t count on that for long. We may have surprised them, but they’ll know the value of this town just as we do. So we’ll need to plan our defense here. Word is that the Germans have had enough at Dier ez Zour, but that means they’ll be heading our way, and they could be here by tomorrow. Have a look at my map, Lieutenant, and see what you think.”

Byng removed his goggles and gloves, his automatic weapon still slung over his shoulder. The map was not the sort of well detailed document he might be accustomed to, but it depicted most of the key terrain features near the town.

“This high ground north of the airfield will have to be occupied,” he said at once, and Popski nodded.

“I thought as much,” he returned. “The rise northeast of the field looks to be a good place to set up our mortars. It overlooks both the town and airfield.”

“Good enough, and you might post a squad on that hill as well.” Byng pointed to an elevation due north from their position. “You’ve only twenty men?”

“Twenty-one, counting the pilots. We lost a man at Palmyra.”

“Well I was thinking to take my Argonauts south to the river. We can put some defense into the town, and hold the bridges. Your men might best be held here to cover the airfield and that high ground. We were heavy on missiles this loadout, so I’ve only brought three ten man squads. But we’ll be breaking into teams of five men each. I’ll designate them Argo one thru six.”

“We’ll do the same,” said Popski, “four fire teams. I’ll post our team Chenko with me here to hold this field. Troyak and Zykov will occupy that high ground.”

Byng looked over the hills again, the concern on his face obvious. “We won’t be able to hold here for very long,” he said frankly. “You can put ten men on that high ground, but they won’t be able to stop any determined attack. And that town is the real problem. If they get men on the east side of the river, they’ll be able to approach through this area here.” He pointed to the map at a place labeled Samara. “They’ll come through the town like water through a sieve. If I have a fire team covering each bridge, and one in reserve, that leaves me only fifteen men to watch that flank and cover the town itself.”

“Yes, it’s not a pretty picture,” said Popski, “but we’ll have to touch it up as best we can.”

“Very well, Colonel. By the way, let me say it’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. I’ve…” Byng smiled. “Let’s just say I’ve read about you and that private little army you set up in the western deserts.”

“What? Popski’s Private Army?” Popski always liked the sound of that. “Shan Hackett gave me that handle, though I’ve yet to sink my teeth into the business. This bit here is a good workout for the time being. One day I’ll get back to Egypt and Libya. If you’re ever at large there, look me up, Lieutenant. I’ve seen your blokes go at it. Damn good men.”

“That they are, sir.”

“I’ll let the Russian Captain know what we’ve planned, and fill his ear with your comments as well. For my money, I would rather see us concentrate the whole force available on one objective, like this airfield here. It’s really the principle supply point. Roads east and south are long and hard, and there’s no rail connection to this place. So any supplies will have to be flown in, and this field is vital for that. I’m sure he’ll agree. He’s damn touchy about that helicontraption of his there, and seeing what you lads can do in those little birds of yours, I can understand why.”

“Yes sir. Nothing like knowing LT Ryan is up in those X-3s on overwatch,” said Byng.

It was just after dusk when Fedorov returned with Troyak and Zykov, relieved at the bridge defense by Byng and his Argonauts.

“The Lieutenant says you have a plan,” he said to Popski.

“I suppose so, Captain. The thing is this—we’ve only fifty men here, the whirlybirds aside. When the Germans come, they’ll have an entire regiment, and that Lieutenant Byng is of a mind that the town presents too much cover to stop any determined advance. I’ll have to agree with him. If they get even as much as a company in there, they can move house to house, and it will be damn near impossible to hold them off for very long.”

“I understand,” said Fedorov. “But the British will be close on the heels of the Germans when they get here.”

“True enough,” said Popski. “But that road along the river is easy to hold. The escarpments to the west restrict any good ground for movement to a nice little bottleneck. Jerry can set up shop there and post small delaying forces that could hold our lads up a good long while.”

“Don’t forget Brigadier Kingstone’s column is to the south,” Fedorov reminded. “He’s well inland from the river approach, and chances are he may get here first.”

“That would be much desired,” said Popski, though he had real misgivings. “That’s hard ground south,” he said quietly. “Wouldn’t want Kingstone to get lost out there, would we?” He gave Fedorov a knowing eye, and his point was well made.

That was the real question, thought Fedorov. Could the British get here with enough force in time? Would this be just another futile holding effort, waiting for relief that might never arrive? And how many men might we lose here tomorrow if we do try to hold? I’m counting on Kingstone’s flying column, but Popski is correct. It may never get here. Should I go up with the KA-40 and look for him tonight? Perhaps we could air ferry some of his troops here?

The falling sun was soon driving the first shadows of the evening in on his troubled thoughts and, just after dusk, the pilot of the KA-40 reported he had airborne contacts on radar from the south.”

“From the south?” Fedorov thought they might be British planes out of Habbaniyah, but he was wrong. The first appearance of the enemy would not come by the river road, or the thin tracks that led west to Aleppo, or north to Turkey. It would come from the flights of JU-52s that Ramcke had managed to collect for his recon battalion, and it was coming that very moment.

“We’d better get a couple X-3s up,” he suggested, and Popski ran off to Lieutenant Ryan to raise the alarm. Soon the fitful whirl of the sleek rotors was clouding the field with blown dust, and two helos rose into the gathering darkness like shadowy birds of prey. Some minutes later they saw the missiles in the air, the first bright explosion and fire of a kill, and they knew the fight was joined. The low drone of aircraft engines sounded hollow, and Fedorov pinched off his collar microphone to signal Troyak on the high ground overlooking the airfield, even as a second explosion ripped the darkness on the near horizon. The killing had started.

“Sergeant Troyak,” he said. “Get your men ready. They’re coming.”

* * *

Ramcke
was some time getting his men together to see what he had left after the chaotic night drop in the desert northwest of the town. His engineer platoon was nowhere to be found, most likely on the first plane to be hit. Of the 162 men that had boarded the planes, he was able to account for only 96 in that first hour on the ground. He had a mixed force to begin with, mostly the recon platoons plucked from the Regiment’s companies for this special mission, and re-designated the Luftland Sturm Recon Battalion, a formation that had never existed prior to his deployment here. In spite of the name, his platoons really only amounted to a good reinforced company when they set out, and now he had apparently lost a third of his force in the wild night drop.

Oberleutnant Jung’s Platoon had come through unscathed, and Altman’s Platoon was well accounted for. Hoefeld’s pioneers were missing to a man, and Schulte could only present with twelve men from his platoon. Reinhardt had collected his men from the 8th Schwere Company, which was all the heavy firepower they would have that night, three heavy machine guns and three 81mm mortars, half of what that company was authorized to carry. The rest were gone, or lost in the darkness somewhere. He would not really know the score until sunrise, but there was no time to wait on the dawn. He had to get his men assembled and into that town, or up on that high ground overlooking the place, and that was what he set out to do. He found Feldmann and his Brandenburgers, all intact with a group of twenty men.

“Alright, Feldmann. You were so confident just a moment ago. What was in your damn reports about those new British rockets? I’ll be lucky to have a hundred men alive here after that attack.”

Feldmann gave him a disparaging look, clearly shaken by the experience of the night drop, though his morale was undaunted. “Let me take my men into the town,” he said. “You’ll want those hills as soon as possible. He pointed to the knobby high ground overlooking the place, his eyes still darkly scanning the sky when they heard a distant thrumming sound.

“What was that aircraft?” Ramcke asked. “Did you see anything when you jumped?”

“Just the toes of my boots,” said Feldmann. “The ground came up much too fast.”

“I got a glimpse of something, but it wasn’t a British fighter plane. What is going on here, Feldmann? Tanks that can smash right through a panzer division, rockets launching from ships and planes—where did the British get these weapons? What has the Abwehr been doing for the last year? Why haven’t we heard about any of this?”

“I would like to tell you I know everything Herr Oberst,” said Feldmann, adjusting the strap of his sub-machinegun. “But my pockets are not quite big enough.”

“Well,” said Ramcke, “no one expects you to carry the whole world in your pockets, Feldmann, just a good bit of what we might be facing here would be sufficient. In another hour we’ll see what we have in front of us. Then we deal with anything you may have overlooked.”

He turned to a Sergeant and ordered the men to assemble by squads. “That hill,” he pointed to the shadow in the distance. “I want a recon team there at once. Hold three squads ready to assault. If the British have commandos here, they will not have overlooked the importance of that ground. Tell Reinhardt to get his mortar teams ready, and that will likely be his first target. I will follow Feldman to the edge of the town and set up my command post there. Send runners as soon as you can sort the situation out.”

The men moved now with well practiced urgency. This was what they had trained for, their stock in trade. For some it had been their third or fourth combat jump of the war, survivors of Holland, Malta and Cyprus. Ramcke watched them move, hefting their weapons and ammunition, tightening the straps of their characteristic helmets, lacing up a loosened boot. They were ready to fight, he thought, and woe betide the British tonight.

He looked to Feldmann, seeing the man nod and salute as he led his Brandenburgers off towards the town. “I will keep you informed, Herr Oberst,” he said over his shoulder with a wink. “This will not take long.” His irrepressible smile followed, and he was off, the black uniformed Brandenburgers following in a smart line that was soon swallowed by the night.

Ramcke put his hands on his hips, watching his unit unfold, the squads fanning out, harangued by the hard commands of the other officers and Sergeants. The men moved on instinct, a reflex for war and combat that was well honed. Perhaps Feldmann is correct, he hoped. After all, how many commandos could the British have here, twenty, fifty? He had made a very good guess, but his thoughts were still harried by that shadow he had seen slipping into the clouds, and the searing fire of those rockets that had taken down three of his nine planes.