Authors: Anthony G Williams
THE FORESIGHT WAR (20 page)
His aide was looking nervous again, always a bad sign.
‘What is it?’
He snapped.
‘The reinforcements, sir.
It seems the British sent a naval force into the Adriatic – heavy cruisers and light aircraft carriers.
They found the convoy.’
Soddu closed his eyes wearily.
Would nothing in this accursed campaign ever go right?
‘Go on.
How many were sunk?’
There was an ominous hesitation.
‘All of them, sir.’
At the end of the month, General Soddu was relieved of his command.
‘I don’t care about Il Duce’s precious pride anymore!
He kept us out of Libya until it was too late to come to his aid, because he thought he might win a famous victory.
Now he’s trying to keep us away from Greece.
Doesn’t the idiot realise that he can posture and pretend all he likes, his precious army has all the fighting ability of a flock of sheep?’
Rather unfair, Herrman thought.
Some Italian units had shown bravery and determination.
The terrain suited the Greeks, though, who were ferocious in defence.
The Führer paced up and down; Herrman had never seen him so angry with his ally, for whom he had always had a soft spot.
‘It would not be advisable to try to reinforce the Italians through Albania,’ Herrman offered.
‘There is only a sea route and the Royal Navy is too strong.
Now Bulgaria has joined the Tripartite Pact, we can invade Greece through Thrace and Macedonia.
Alternatively, we could invade Yugoslavia on the way.
As I recall, that was a quick and painless campaign in my time; it was easy to turn the Serbs and Croats against each other.
It left a serious partisan problem, though.
The country is ideal for it.’
Hitler grunted.
‘I didn’t want to fight in the Balkans at all, but to neutralise them with diplomacy.
I can do without any distractions from the preparations for Russia.
Now the Italians have left me no choice.
I can’t have the British on my southern borders.’
He paced around the room, thinking.
Herrman wondered if he would ever get used to the surroundings, which seemed to fit a standard pattern wherever he went;
the heavy panelling hung with Nazi flags, the awful furniture and kitsch statuary, occasional paintings of triumphant Aryan warriors, contrasting with those of blonde maidens demurely revealing their charms.
The Führer stopped pacing.
‘I’ll give Yugoslavia one more chance to join the Pact.
If they refuse, I’ll take them!’
‘They will agree, but there’ll be a popular revolt against the government for doing so,’ Herrman predicted confidently.
‘So be it!
I’m not wasting any more time than I have to on the Balkans.’
‘The British will send troops to Greece if we invade.’
‘Good!
Let them see how they will fare against the Wehrmacht for a change!’
‘We must defend the north-east!
It has a strong line of fortifications, well armed.
Besides, we cannot possibly abandon Thrace, Macedonia and Salonika.
The people would never forgive us!’
General Metaxas, the Greek leader, was clearly appalled at the suggestion.
Geoffrey Taylor, leading the covert British delegation, was trying to balance firmness with reasonableness.
‘I know the Yugoslavs have given assurances as to their neutrality, but we have it on the highest authority that they won’t be able to stick to that.
The Germans will brush them aside.
Then they will be able to attack from the north, and cut off your troops in the north-east.’
‘So you say!’
Taylor was feeling acutely uncomfortable.
He knew that the defences of the Metaxas Line were dear to the heart of their architect.
He also knew that Metaxas would be dead within weeks.
‘We are organising the shipping to bring our divisions over to you.
I have to tell you, though, that we will only deploy further west, on the Aliakmon Line and the border with Yugoslavia.
We won’t put any troops into the north-east.’
Metaxas nodded curtly.
‘We can look after
that
ourselves.’
The Lochagos lay just below the crest, watching elements of the XL Mountain Corps of the Wehrmacht pressing relentlessly forward through the Monastir Gap linking Yugoslavia with Greece.
The British SAS unit
lay
beside him, the forward air controller giving clipped instructions over the wireless.
They did not have long to wait.
With a rising howl of Hercules engines (how appropriate, thought the FAC irrelevantly) a pair of Brigands swooped down on the troops, rockets rippling from underwing.
The Greek Army captain shouted encouragement as the German troops dived for cover, then waited eagerly as the fighter-bombers lazily turned to begin a strafing run.
Suddenly, two similar-looking aircraft flashed down out of the cloud layer, heading unerringly for the unsuspecting Brigands.
A brief hammering of cannon fire, and the British planes tumbled broken to the ground.
No parachutes opened.
‘Focke Wulf 190s!
How did they…? The Germans must be using mobile radar!
I’d better warn HQ.’
The leader of the SAS team stirred uneasily.
‘Don’t stay on the wireless for long.
We know they have detection equipment.’
The FAC nodded and sent his message.
Then he rose slightly to put the equipment away.
There was an odd snapping sound and the FAC jerked violently then slumped to the ground.
‘Get down!
Sniper!’
The experienced troops needed no telling.
They slid backwards down the slope to make their escape.
The SAS lieutenant looked back up at the still body of the FAC, and cursed.
‘We’ve lost the wireless!’
‘Not much use to us now,’ his sergeant commented.
‘We can do no more here.’
The lieutenant nodded and the small troop followed the grim-faced Lochargos away from the Gap.
The long barrels of the sixty-two-pounders gave the game away.
Poking skywards at identical angles from the shapeless lumps of camouflage netting, they revealed the presence of a troop of Conqueror self-propelled guns, emplaced behind Vroia on the Aliakmon Line.
Every few
minutes
new instructions came through from the Auster spotter plane, bravely risking flak and fighters to ensure the gunners hit the attacking German forces some eight miles away.
The barrels shifted minutely, the guns fired a ragged salvo – deafening, metallic thumps – followed by a clanking of metal as the empty cartridge cases were ejected, clearing the breeches for the next shells waiting in the loading trays.
Despite the winter cold, the hatches and rear doors of the Conquerors were open to reduce the fumes in the fighting compartments.
The crews froze as a sudden, violent hammering filled the air.
‘Air attack!’
The crews scrabbled frantically to slam the rear doors shut as a gunner in each vehicle struggled up into the hatch, grasping the handles of the Vickers-Browning 0.5 and swinging it skywards.
Their accompanying Comet AA tank whose firing had alerted them was still engaging the diving aircraft with short bursts of the Oerlikons.
Tracers laced the sky as the Conquerors joined in, as if trying the snare the enemy in a web of smoke.
Rockets shot forward from the Fw 190s, an eruption of rapid explosions obliterating the vehicles in earth and dust.
Heads popped back out of hatches as the engine noise died away.
‘Prepare to move out!
Now they’ve found us their counter-battery units will be zeroing in!’
The gunners needed no further encouragement, and the armoured beasts roared and growled as they lurched heavily out of their firing points, turned tightly on their tracks and lumbered ponderously away in search of the new firing position which had previously been identified for just such an eventuality.
Seven miles to the east, the Eighth Armoured Division was not having an easy time.
The Aliakmon Line was not as well fortified as the Metaxas Line and the precious armoured units were being held behind the Line to race from place to place to cut off any threatened German breakthrough.
The driver of the Crusader II cursed through gritted teeth as he wrenched the steering levers back and forth, aiming the speeding tank for the narrow gap between two buildings of the burning, deserted village.
Once through, he spun the tank with a violence which threatened to tear the tracks off, then nudged it slowly forward.
As expected, the first of the Panzer IIIs emerged through the dust and smoke of battle some three hundred yards away.
A short command and the Crusader’s six-pounder gun fired with an intense blast, rocking the tank on its suspension.
The leading Panzer jerked to a halt, but two more appeared, one on either side, their guns firing heavy shells which collapsed the buildings around the Crusader.
‘Get us out of here!’
Yelled the Sergeant, who had collected much dust and rubble through keeping his head out of the hatch.
As the tank ground slowly backwards, it tilted up to clear the rubble,
then
began to lurch down the other side.
A solid armour-piercing shot slammed into the gun mantlet, knocking the turret completely off the tank.
Almost simultaneously, a second shot smashed the frontal armour.
The Crusader began to burn.
A thousand yards away, the gunner of the Cavalier waited tensely, straining to see through the dust.
Grey shapes suddenly emerged into the open, muzzles raised as they headed towards the self-propelled anti-tank gun.
‘Fire when you’re ready!’
The gunner needed no urging, and the Cavalier lurched as the massive high-velocity cannon sent seventeen pounds of solid, hardened steel screaming towards the Panzers at nearly three thousand feet per second.
The turret of one tank was smashed apart by the second shot; by then, the other tanks had spotted the Cavalier and opened fire.
Shellfire crashed around the SPG and the vehicle rang as a solid shot deflected off the thick, well-sloped frontal armour.
The crew fired steadily, destroying a second tank.
More of the Panzers emerged from the smoke.
‘Watch out – they’re flanking us!’
The side armour of the Cavalier was much thinner than the frontal plate and the SPGs could not risk being attacked from the flanks.
‘Fire smoke and pull back – we’ve got to get out of here!’
The smoke mortars lobbed their screening shells out in front of the SPG as it reversed rapidly out of the battle line to seek a safer firing position.
‘We can keep our end up in a straight fight; the problem is that the Germans keep on coming.’
The staff officer was staring at the map in frustration.
The steady onward thrust of the Axis columns was starkly displayed.
Taylor grunted in sympathy.
‘The qualitative balance is close.
The new version of the Panzer III has a seventy-five millimetre gun as well as thicker armour; it’s more than a match for the Crusader II.
Fortunately we brought enough Cavaliers over to stop the rot, but an SPG is never as good as a tank in a mobile battle.
We’ve some new ammunition which will give our six-pounder tank gun enough punch to penetrate the German armour at long range but it’s not over here yet.
You’re right about the numbers, though.
Whenever we try to hold our positions we’re in danger of being bypassed and swamped.
We can’t bring up reinforcements as fast as they can.
I don’t see that we have any option but to pull out.’
‘To Crete, you mean?’
Taylor nodded.
‘The Navy is standing by at some of the southern ports.
I think the decision to evacuate will be taken soon.’
The contingency had been carefully planned for; Don Erlang’s warnings about the danger of airborne invasion had been heeded.
Four squadrons of Reapers had been assigned to Crete to cover the withdrawal from the mainland ports nearly two hundred miles away; six squadrons of Spitfires were also in place ready to defend the island from the expected attack.
The Navy was also prepared.
A force of frigates and destroyers, all with heavy anti-aircraft armament, escorted the vessels evacuating troops from Greece then patrolled the north coast of Crete.
On the ground, the airfields, the weak link in Don Erlang’s time, were heavily defended with batteries of 3 inch and 40 mm AA guns, with the perimeter of the fields guarded by Comet AA tanks, backed up by well-emplaced troops armed with heavy machine guns.
If the Fallschirmjäger attempted to land this time, they would be greeted with an annihilating reception.