“What do you think we should do now, Shabeg?” Major Joel Hamby was looking at the column with interest.
“I am thinking that this is a good time to let the situation mature. If the column is hostile, it may well stop in the town. That would give us only one target to attack. If it does not stop in the town, waiting will bring it in closer to us and make our initial attack more effective. If it is friendly, it will occupy the town with some fighting and save us the trouble. All the ways I think of this, I see only benefit from waiting and none from pressing the issue.”
“I agree.” Hamby nodded. “To let the situation mature is the best decision. It nearly always is. The column has lorries and armored cars. Fourwheeled armored cars.”
“I think that makes it likely to be South African. The Italians would have those little tankettes. But it is still better to allow the situation to mature. Perhaps it might be in order to alert the men, so that we can move to the aid of the South Africans if they run into trouble down there.” Singh looked again. “I am certain those are Morris armored cars.”
“I think you’re right. I’d say that column is going to attack the encampment, wouldn’t you?”
No reply was necessary. The lorries and armored cars were already spreading out south of the tree-shrouded encampment that dominated the southern approach to Sululta. It was hard to make out the exact details of what was happening due to the dust and heat shimmer, but Singh could imagine the infantry leaving their lorries and spreading out to attack the position. The only thing that puzzled him was why they were taking so long about it. The answer to that question was quickly forthcoming; the drone of aircraft engines.
Six Blenheims skimmed over the ridge to the south of Sululta and made straight for the encampment. The attack had obviously been carefully planned. The pattern of bombs exploded all over the presumably Italian position. It vanished in a cloud of dirt and smoke. One or two of the bombs had overshot the position and exploded in the housing areas beyond. Measured against the vast expanse of Africa, the little hundred-pounders seemed to be insignificant. Singh doubted the recipients felt that way about them.
The South Africans started to move forward as soon as the bombs fell. Their armored cars snapped out bursts from their machine guns and rounds from their Boys Rifles. Singh was so busy watching the attack in progress, he forgot about the Blenheims. Hamby discretely drew his attention back to one of them; one that was circling the position of the 11th Sikhs on the hill.
“I suspect a recognition flare might be in order right now, old chap. Red then blue.”
Singh got out the flare gun, checked the cartridge was of the correct type and then loaded it into the flare gun. The Blenheim overhead had reached the end of its run. It turned back to inspect the troops in more detail. The flare arched upwards, at first brilliant red, then turning to a dark blue. It was hard to see against the sky, so he loaded and fired a second flare. The Blenheim pilot was obviously confused. He circled the hilltop. Singh was about to fire a third flare when Hamby put his hand over the flaregun.
“I wouldn’t do that. He can’t see the blue flare against the sky and he’s only got the red part to go by. I bet he’s not sure whether it is a recognition flare or tracer fire from the ground. The more flares we put up, the more likely it is he’ll decide they are tracers.”
“I am thinking the man who decided on blue flares was a fatherless fool.” Singh watched the Blenheim make another circuit of his position.
“I am thinking you are right.”
Overhead the Blenheim straightened out. The pilot waggled his wings before heading south. Hamby and Singh breathed a sigh of relief. They took a look at the scene down by the encampment. While they had been dealing with the suspicious Blenheim, the Italians had surrendered. The South Africans were occupying the encampment and spreading into the town.
“We had better go down there and introduce ourselves.”
A few minutes later, the leading section of the Sikh battalion was driving into Sululta. The South Africans had their vehicles parked in the shade. That left the Sikhs to park theirs on the sunny side of the street. Singh and Hamby got out and walked over to the South Africans, who were relaxing. As soon as they approached, the relaxed attitude vanished. One South African jumped to his feet and saluted smartly.
“Sir, Sergeant Dirk Klaas, Natal Mounted Rifles. Welcome to Sululta. The crabs warned us you were coming.
“Crabs?” Singh asked quietly.
“Royal Air Force.” Hamby replied equally quietly. “Major Hamby and Subadar Singh, 4th Battalion, 11th Sikhs. My compliments on a wellexecuted attack, Sergeant; we were watching from the hill.”
“The Italians aren’t resisting too much, sir. They’re afraid if they drive us back, the kaffir irregulars will get them.” Klaas realized what he had said and flushed slightly. “Sorry, sir. But the Italians are deathly afraid of the irregulars. We’ve seen a couple of them who’d been taken prisoner by the… irregulars. What was left, it didn’t look human. Poor bastards had been skinned alive and that was just the start of it. We shot them; only merciful thing to do.”
“When you’re wounded and layin’ on the Afghan Plains.” Singh quoted the line from Kipling. “We know what you mean, Sergeant. I am thinking, who really wants this place?”
The stench of burned wood and charred flesh surrounded the party as they left the trucks that had brought them in from the airfield. The market place had been devastated. Smoke from the explosions mingled with the smell of explosives. What made the sight worse were the remains of the decorations; colored paper streamers still fluttered in the wreckage. Cordell Hull had seen the effects of bombing raids on cities before, first in Spain and then in China, but the Christmas decorations were a heartbreaking touch he had not expected. Troops moved slowly through the wreckage, trying to find survivors in the shattered ruins of market stalls and food stands.
“We have had word from Nakhon Phanom.” The Ambassador was standing in the shade, watching the troops at work. “Four Potez bombers hit our market place there with three tons of bombs. There is no doubt in my mind that this was a deliberate attack on our civilians. This, here, might have been an accident. Two such attacks, no. They knew our families would be gathered here today.”
“How many?” That was all Hull was able to say, but The Ambassador understood him.
“So far, six dead, forty wounded. Some of those have lost arms and legs. In Nakhon Phanom, only two dead, but about thirty wounded. We are lucky there was no fire here.”
Hull nodded. He picked his way to the center of the market square. He could hear crying and whimpering from the wreckage and hurried to help shift some of the debris. A market stand had collapsed, but the wreckage had formed a triangle. The victims were in the safe zone. A soldier grabbed the other end of a wooden beam and helped Hull get it clear. There were two young children beside the stand; dirty, terrified but unhurt. They blinked in the afternoon sun, then saw the elderly European who had rescued them. Almost by instinct, they made deep wais to their saviors. The boy placed a hand on the back of his younger sister, helping her bow to the correct depth for their relative status. Hull carefully returned the gesture. His throat seized up and his eyes started to moisten as the soldier led them away.
He cleared his throat and turned to The Ambassador. “There were no antiaircraft guns here, no fighters?”
“Antiaircraft guns? No. Why should there be? This is a harmless market town. As for fighters, this is too close to the border. If they were based here, they would be caught on the ground by any attack. They are based further inland. Hawk IIIs. Our version of your BF2C. They were too slow to get here. The bombers had gone.” She looked at Hull curiously, seeing the tears trickling down his cheeks. It is time to tread very, very gently.