Hammer of God (Kirov Series Book 14) (20 page)

The
salvo fell short this time, striking the sheer hillside with a rumble of three rounds.
“They are just bracketing now, but they’ll have the range in another minute. I
think their O.P. is on the hill to the west.”

He
pinched his collar microphone and gave an order for the mortar team on the
north tower to put five rounds on that hill. A minute later the scene was a
roar, with both incoming and outgoing rounds whistling and exploding. One round
struck the fortress, shaking the old stone walls near the base of the south
tower. Then another explosion sent a haze of dust and rock fragments down on
the chamber where Fedorov and three other Marines huddled, his fingers in his
ears.

“That
was close,” he said, noting that the other men took the development with cool
nerves. They had been under fire many times before, and knew what was coming.

“I
think we’ll need the KA-40 to get after those guns,” said Troyak. “These are
105mm rounds, and if they have the ammunition, they can just pound this
fortress all day. The stonework is solid, but it’s old. They’ll reduce the
place to a pile of rubble in time.”

The
fire continued for some minutes, with another hit in the upper gallery of the
fort. Then there came a pause before they heard the guns begin again. Fedorov
braced himself, hands over his ears, eyes shut tight, but no rounds came at
them. Troyak was up the stone stairs and onto the upper tower battlements again
with his field glasses. He returned a moment later to report that the Germans
had re-oriented their fire to the southeast.

Fedorov
smiled. “The British!” he exclaimed.

“I
saw a small dust column coming from that direction,” said Troyak.

“It
could be Glubb Pasha and his Arab Legion, but they didn’t have many vehicles.”

They
soon learned that the British were arriving from two directions now, south and
east. The sound of a bugle scored an interval of silence with its high call,
and the Marines re-deployed to the top of the fort. There they could see the
platoons of the French Foreign Legion withdrawing from their positions in the
old Roman ruins, and moving off to the east through the town.

“I
think they have bigger fish to fry,” said Fedorov.

“Yes,”
said Troyak. “I make two German battalions off to the east now. They’ve left
only one battalion here to cover the fort and stand as a reserve. They’ll have
their men on all that high ground by now, but I don’t think we’ll see anything
more than mortar fire, unless we get them pissed off. They’ll wait until after
dark, and then they’ll try to send in a few patrols to see what we have under
our skirts. Until then, I think we will be watching a battle form up to the
east.”

“Should
I contact the KA-40?” Fedorov asked.

“Not
yet. Better tonight when they can’t really see what will hit them. Let them
heat up those artillery tubes today, and we’ll see their positions on infrared
tonight. At dusk we’ll start a little mortar duel here to uncover their tube
positions on these hills for the helo. Then they get a nice surprise after dark.”

“Can
we expect a ground assault here”

“Possibly.
I would at least probe the position if I were them. They can’t want us up here with
mortars able to hit their troops in the town if the fighting gets pushed there.
They’re ignoring us for the moment, but they haven’t forgotten we’re here.
Tonight we’ll remind them.”

Chapter 20

The
British had convened a
conference at Rutbah concerning the plan to capture Palmyra. General Clark had
flown in from Jerusalem to brief Brigadier Kingstone on the overall operation
in Syria, and he made a point of emphasizing the importance of this wide
flanking maneuver.

“It’s
not just the airfield and the pipeline route we uncover,” he said, “but this
move could unhinge the whole of the French Defense at Damascus. I understand
you have already sent an advanced detachment?”

“I’m
not sure who they are, sir,” said Kingstone, feeling stupid for the remark. “They
were sent all the way from Palestine, and must have come in by air. Apparently
they caught the French napping. I’m told a Colonel Peniakoff from the LRDG was
with them, a small party sent to scout the position before we arrived.” Kingstone
folded his arms, a tall hard man with a high forehead and cheeks reddened by
the long hours in the sun. He had come all the way from Palestine to Baghdad,
and now his hastily assembled force was heading back to Syria, and there seemed
to be elements scattered all over the desert from Rutbah to Habbaniyah.

“Colonel
Peniakoff? Ah yes! That’s Popski. Wavell will vouch for the man, and I’d say
that puts him in good company. Apparently his operation came from Wavell
himself—and it’s very hush, hush. I was simply told that they were to have a
free hand here, and was assured they would deliver results—much like your Arab
friends out here. What have they been up to?”

“Glubb
Pasha apparently left last night with his Legion. That leaves us here with my
column, and anything Habforce can send us from Habbaniyah.”

“Well
the situation in Iraq is still very fluid, but the Indian Brigades have taken
up the burden of running the last of the Iraqi hostiles to ground. We’ve put
one battalion into Kirkuk, and another in Mosul. The rest are consolidating and
preparing to move up the Euphrates. Your action is the inside arc of this
operation. You are to take Palmyra, then press on to Homs to cut the rail line
there. We tried to put in commandos, but ran into a little more than we
expected near Rayak.”

“The
Germans?”

“Who
else? They had the bald faced audacity to call our operation in Syria an ‘unprovoked
aggression’—as if the whole affair in France the Low Countries, Denmark and
Norway was a garden party—not to mention Gibraltar and now Egypt. Well, we
don’t mince words with the Germans any longer. Either we meet them on the field
and win through, or they’ll have the last laugh, and I for one refuse to
contemplate that.”

“What
might we expect at Palmyra?” Kingstone wanted to know what he was up against.

“We’ve
had word the Germans flew troops into Homs last night. They might be headed
your way, and if not, you’ll have to be prepared to meet them there after you
take Palmyra.”

“Very
good, sir. Jerry has pulled a few rabbits out of his hat lately. That ambush of
the supply flotilla on the Euphrates could have stopped us cold for a while.
Luckily there was fuel at Habbaniyah, and the lorries should be here soon.
We’ll be assembled and ready to move out soon after. I can brief Colonel
Nichols with the rest of Habforce when we get to the T3 Pump station.”

That
afternoon they pressed hard for Palmyra on three fronts. To the south, Glubb Pasha
was already a day ahead, leading his Arab Legion, a force of about 300 men,
across the border post at Al Walid, and across the rugged desolation of the
desert. He skirted the edge of hard rocky basins of volcanic debris and
desiccated lava, relying on the uncanny nose and ground sense of his
experienced Bedouin scouts. The force was ‘mechanized’ now, which meant that
the troops had moved from the backs of their horses to Ford 8cwt trucks that
the Legion had purchased from America some time before the war. Smaller than a
typical British Lorry, they mounted a Lewis Gun up front with a driver and two
gunners. A squad of five riflemen road in the back, and a few of these had a
Vickers heavy machinegun assigned. Otherwise the force had no heavy weapons,
artillery, or even mortars, though Glubb Pasha had four home brewed armored
cars with Twin Lewis Guns and a Vickers MG.

His
first hard day took him to the village of Al Hulbah, a march of some 75
kilometers. From there a night march took him to some ruins a little over 15
kilometers south of the objective. He sent out a few patrols to scout ahead,
and some of his men had been restless enough, and bold enough, to try and
attack a battery of German artillery maneuvering into position south of the town.
It was this action that had prompted the Germans to re-direct their fire, which
spared Fedorov and Troyak what might have been a hard pounding that day.
Unfortunately, it also alerted the Germans to the presence of British troops on
that flank, and Colonel Wolff disposed his men accordingly.

King
Column was finally able to get its hands on the supplies and fuel needed to
move and was rumbling northwest towards pump station T3, on the pipeline to
Tripoli. There they met and quickly overcame a small garrison, and camped that
night some 45 kilometers due east of Palmyra. This force, under the hard
charging Brigadier Joe Kingstone, was comprised of the Essex Battalion of Motorized
Infantry, the Household Cavalry Regiment with three squadrons of lorried troops,
a battery of 25-pounders, some AA guns and a platoon of engineers.

On
the morning of March 19, 1941 the British forces assigned to the operation
against Palmyra were finally converging on the town. Fedorov had Popski make
radio contact with Brigadier Kingstone to inform him that the place had been
heavily reinforced, and this changed Kingstone’s plan of attack considerably.
He immediately summoned his intelligence officer, Somerset De Chair, and wanted
to know what he knew about all this.

“Germans!”
he said kicking a nearby canteen and sending it flying twenty feet across the
road. “Where did they come from Somerset? Popski says they pulled in last night
in a long column of French trucks.”

“Well
we haven’t heard a word about it, sir,” said De Chair. “At least not since
General Clark’s briefing. He mentioned they were flying in to Homs, but we’ve
had no intelligence about this move to Palmyra.” De Chair had been with the
column since it left Palestine, a most useful man in ferreting out maps, and
even helping to scout the way as he sped about in his blue staff car with an
Arabic speaking interpreter, a man named Reading. Kingstone had taken a liking
to him, and always referred to him by his first name, even in written orders.
But the General was famous for his temper, and he hated surprises, especially
ones that involved the sudden arrival of a regiment of German infantry! They
were gathered around the Signals Truck, called “the Gin Palace” by the men, and
Kingstone was clearly not happy.

“Well
it’s no good trying to envelop the place and get to Homs as we planned,” said
the General. “We had hoped to get quickly behind the French Garrison and leave
it to wither on the vine, but we can’t bloody well do that now. A force that
large is too formidable to be bypassed.”

“Agreed,
sir,” said Somerset. “We would be much wiser to wait for Habforce to link up
from Iraq, and if this is a full German regiment, then I think we’ll need
anything else we can get moving our way from Habbaniyah. Sir, with your
permission, I’ll see about getting a message off. The Kings Own Rifles are
still there.”

Yes?
Well tell them we bloody well need them
here
, and the sooner the
better?”

* * *

The
French still had
troops in the Roman ruins, and Colonel Barre’s legionnaires were now occupying
a series of block houses to defend the airfield. Barre began to deploy his men
in a defensive perimeter, and as he did so, there were reports of fighting on
the roads leading east, where the Desert Camel Company was screening the
approaches from the T3 pump station. The Colonel was none too happy to learn
the British were already in possession of that facility, but he was bolstered
by the knowledge that he had German troops behind him now, and determined to
fight.

“Let’s
show the Germans what the Foreign Legion is made of,” he said. “We’ll hold the
airfield, and they will cover our backside.”

One
platoon was assigned to the airfield defense, and the remaining two took up
positions on the northeast quarter of the town, where the roads led east to
pump station T3. Soon the bedraggled men of the Desert Camel Company came
riding back in scattered groups of two and three. They had been sent to block
and delay the British, but were clearly not up to the task. The enemy was
approaching, and deploying infantry into the outlying farms to either side of
the road. The action began when a small column of four armored cars approached
the town, prompting the legionnaires to open fire with their machineguns.
Barre’s men had no effective anti-tank guns, but their fire was hot enough to
compel the armored cars to withdraw. Fifteen minutes later the artillery fire
began. The British had opened up with a battery of 25-pounders.

Off
to the south, Glubb Pasha and his Arab Legion had moved up close to the thick
palm groves after the scouts gave up their attack on the German artillery. The
enemy had simply lowered the barrels of the 105mm guns and blasted the detachment,
knocking out one truck and sending the men scattering into the nearby trees.

A
Naib of the tribe, Sergeant Salim, was shaking his head with misgiving, a
disgusted look on his face. “Wein al nishawa?” he said disconsolately to a
nearby Corporal. “Where are the gallants?”

Jazzi
Ibn Isa of the Howeitat was there, with Salim. “Yes,” said Jazzi, “where are
the gallants? Those were not French guns, or French troops behind them. They
were Germans, and they clearly showed no fear when we surprised them. If we are
to prevail we must be equally fearless here! Wein al nishawa?”

His
words stiffened the morale of the men, and they were soon set upon advancing
through the groves to get closer to the enemy. The Sergeant led them forward,
until the rattle of a machinegun opened fire at the far side of a clearing. The
Arabs returned fire with their rifles, and a Ford truck came rumbling up,
quickly joining the action with its Lewis gun. The firefight grew, as the Arabs
came to see that they had now washed up against a company sized force at the outskirts
of the town. It was, in fact, the 1st Company of the German 47th recon unit
accompanying the regiment, and as the battle widened, another squadron of the
Legion came up in trucks, disembarking and rushing into the palm groves to
support their brother Arabs.

Both
sides exchanged fire for some time, until Sergeant Salim grew restless and
shouted for his men to charge the enemy. They had done this many times before,
against other tribesmen, and the colonial infantry recruited by the French.
Always the fierceness of their ardor for battle, and the flashing silver
handled knives they wielded were enough to terrify their enemies. But these
were not other native tribesmen, nor African recruits from Algeria, Tunisia or
Senegal. They were tough, hardy soldiers from the heartland of Germany, well
trained and equally well armed. They sat behind their MG-34s and put down
sharp, effective fire on the onrushing Arabs. The bullets zipped through the
groves, cutting down the men in their long flowing robes.

Casualties
mounted quickly, and it was soon clear that the Legion was not to prevail this
day, gallant or not. The charge was broken and the men were driven back. Then
up came Lash Bey, the Captain of the battalion, his face red with anger when he
saw Sergeant Salim rushing back with three other men.

“What
are you doing?” the Captain yelled in anger. “We are reconnaissance units, not
assault troops! You will not get at those machineguns that way, and we have no
heavy weapons. Leave one section here to keep the enemy under fire. Get the
rest of your men back to the trucks. Our job is to screen this flank. Not
attack the whole German army!”

Sergeant
Salim gave the orders, and gathered what was left of his squadron that day, but
Jazzi ibn Isa was not among them. He had joined the other gallants in heaven,
where the maidens waited with honey mead and fresh dates, and his beard would
never darken the circle of brave men in this world again.

The
failed action had served to do one thing, however. It alerted the Germans to a
possible threat on their southern flank, a brave distraction from the main
British advance coming from the east. Colonel Wolff had heard the gunfire, and
the shouts of the Arab Legion when they charged. He had moved his headquarters
company up the western edge of the sprawling palm groves, and set up his
command post in the ancient Temple of Ba’al Shamin, the old sky god, who was
often depicted with an eagle and lightning bolts in the carved stone relief.

Now
another god had come from the sky, and a silver eagle flashed above the brow of
his cap, descending from above with an iron swastika in its talons. He soon
went into the town itself looking for the French garrison commander, and found
Colonel Barre near the fortified barracks just east of the main settlement, a
facility that would later be converted to a notorious prison in modern times.

Wolff
could speak French, and he gave Barre a preemptory salute, which was returned.
“It sounds like the British are coming from the south,” he said.