The CR.32 pilots spotted the diving Tomahawks early and turned to flee. Bosede held his breath. If the Tomahawks set off in pursuit, the Furies would be left unguarded. B Flight knew their duty though. With the CR.32s in full retreat, there was no need to go chasing after them. The Tomahawks pulled out of their dive and climbed back to rejoin A Flight.
Sergeant Gasparo Bonaventura dived for cover as aircraft swept overhead. It wasn’t supposed to be this way at all. Other people were supposed to get bombed. All around him, the men of his detachment were finding nooks and crannies in the rocks to protect them against the fragments from the bombs. Intellectually, he knew the bombs had to be tiny; the old biplanes couldn’t carry any really significant bomb load. When they went off, they were the loudest things he had ever heard. Fragments zinged, ricocheting off the boulders that made up the perimeter of the outpost. They gave good cover against fire from outside, but they trapped the fragments from the bombs and caused them to buzz around inside the laager.
“The perimeter. Quickly.”
His call went out as the biplanes arched away to make another run. There was a reason why this outpost had been positioned here. There weren’t many roads in northern Kenya and none of them were much good. Two of them joined just below the low rise the outpost was sited on. This was the most forward of all the Italian positions on the front. The point of the tip of the spearhead’ his Captain had described the position, before taking off to somewhere safely to the rear. If the enemy were to move in this area, they would have to come through this point. Bonaventura’s job was to see them making the attempt and warn the main defensive positions further north. What they did afterward was unspecified, but he had a feeling it would not end well for him.
Cautiously, he glanced around one of the boulders and looked at the road below. It was as he had feared; a small column of trucks had already pulled up and were unloading their infantry. What shocked him were the number of small, four-wheeled armored cars that were with them. He could count at least six. They were a problem. His men only had their Carcano rifles, without a single weapon capable of defeating armor. Bonaventura was forced to duck again. The biplanes had returned and their twin machine guns were strafing the little outpost.
When he could watch again, the situation had deteriorated badly. The infantry had spread out and were making their way up the slope. Even worse, the armored cars were following them. One stopped. There was a brilliant flash from its left-hand side. A heavy bullet struck a rock, barely a meter from his head. The rock split wide open. Fragments spalled across the gap and slashed at his face.
If that is a Morris down there, and it surely looks like one, then it has a Bren gun and a Boys antitank rifle. Just what are we supposed to do now?
“Open fire!”
The order was almost an automatic response. A feeble patter of fire resulted from it. The infantry attacking them to took cover, but that was hardly a good thing. There were Bren guns down there. They started to put short bursts into his position. His men only had a single light machine gun between them, a Model 30. Bonaventura was rather surprised to here it snap out a burst in return. He was not, though, surprised when it jammed. He heard the crew cursing as they tried to clear the weapon. They will be lucky; once they jam, it takes hours to clear them. Oiled cartridges indeed! Which idiot thought that was a good idea?
The Brens obviously had no such problems. Every time one of his men fired a rifle shot, a Bren would lay down a quick burst in reply. Then the infantry would dash forward while his own men took cover. Every so often, there would be another flash from the armored cars. Another heavy bullet would go whining off the rocks. Bonaventura squirmed around and looked behind his position. Sure enough, the South Africans had worked around his flanks and sealed off his position. That’s it; nobody is getting away from here. It was almost as if the South African commander had heard him. The shout from below was labored and the Italian pronunciation was terrible, as if the man was reading from a note he had been given. The awkward, mispronounced words echoed around the rocks.
“Soldati italiani, la posizione è senza speranza. Abbiamo carri armati e supporto aereo, e vi sono più numerosi. Non c’è disonore nel cedere a tale forza superiore. Nessuno deve morire oggi.”
Italian soldiers, the position is hopeless. We have tanks and air support, and we are more numerous. There is no disgrace in yielding to the superior force. No one should die today. Bonaventura shook his head. The officer below spoke terrible Italian, but he was right. There was nothing more to be achieved here today. “Everybody; cease firing and put down your rifles.”
He sighed, took off his scarf, fixed it to his bayonet and waved it in the air. The South Africans closed on his position. As they did so, he stood up, his hands raised. They jumped into the little redoubt and quickly took possession of the weapons his men had placed on the ground.
“Do not worry about the machine gun. I never had the damn thing fire more than three shots in succession.”
The South African officer looked at the Breda, shuddered slightly, and nodded. “You have no casualties?”
Bonaventura looked at his men. Some had scratches and cuts from flying rock fragments, but that was all. For all the bombing and firing, nobody was seriously hurt. That was a miracle to be thankful for. “None. Thank God.”
The South African smiled and nodded. “My men, also; not one with a hurt worth speaking of. Indeed, we should thank God tonight for his providence to us both.” He paused for a second and looked around. “What were you supposed to be doing here?”
“Warning of your advance.” Bonaventura suddenly realized he had no idea how he had been supposed to get the message back. “They never told me how. They just left it to me.”
The two men exchanged long-suffering looks; both were all too familiar with being given orders but not the equipment needed to carry them out. “Come on, Sergeant; bring your men down. We’ll give you a ride back in our lorries.”
“Where is Mersa Matruh?” Lord Halifax was most confused by the geography of North Africa.
“It’s here, of course.” Butler strode arrogantly towards the map of Egypt on the wall and stabbed his finger towards the western section. Then he stopped and started to search the area for the town in question, Watching him, the Chief of the Imperial General Staff, General Sir John Dill, permitted himself a slight smile of amusement. It was obvious to him that Butler had no real idea of where Mersa Matruh really was. Dill timed his intervention to a nicety.
“Arabic is a very hard language to transliterate, you know. We all had terrible problems with it at the College. Here you are, RAB; it’s called Marsa Matrouh on this map.”
“My God; it’s only 90 miles from Alexandria!” Halifax was appalled at how far the Italian Army had penetrated.
“Oh, no; it’s closer to twice that. But don’t be deceived by distances, Prime Minister.” Dill had an earnest, helpful tone in his voice that appeased Halifax and set Butler’s teeth on edge. “The really important detail here is the lay of the land. See how this ridge angles towards the coast? Well, south of that ridge is a pure undiluted hell called the Quattara Depression. An impassible wasteland; the only water comes from marshes so salty, they make seawater taste sweet and the ground is quicksand under a hard crust. A man can walk on it one moment, then break through and drown in sand the next. The area is riddled with scorpions and venomous snakes. The temperatures hit far over 100 degrees in the day and drop to freezing at night. There’s no way anybody can run military operations there. An army might go in there, but it’d never come out.