“There’s your problem, sir.” The flight sergeant pointed at a single small hole in the nose. “Looks like a bullet from a 7.7 caught your cooling system. Another few minutes and she’ll have seized solid. Don’t sweat it; we’ll have her fixed by morning.”
The telephone rang and a voice came warbled on the other end. The Flight Sergeant grinned broadly. “And that was a Lieutenant van der Haan from intelligence. Confirmed your two Capronis shot down.”
Bosede staggered under the vigorous back-slapping and cheering. It was a long, long way from the days on the Hawker Fury. He threw his cap skywards to celebrate. Then he saw the single tiny hole that had nearly brought him down. A sudden sense of mortality weighed him down to earth.
“We have word from General Cunningham in Kenya, Archie.”
Maitland Wilson had a conceited expression on his face that reminded Wavell of the time one of his dogs had stolen an entire leg of roasted lamb. “Alan seems to be quite happy with the way things are going down there.”
“I’ll need more than that, Jumbo.” Wavell wasn’t in the mood for playful games.
“The South Africans have broken through in both the northern and southern sectors. In the south, they have captured Gorai and el Gumu. Their columns are advancing north towards Kismayu and the Jubu River. In the north, they captured the wells at el Yibu and el Sarbu and sent the Italians packing there. Our aircraft are bombing and strafing the Italians as they retreat, and it looks like that retreat is turning into a rout. Alan doesn’t expect any serious resistance inside Italian Somaliland and thinks the Italians will try and concentrate on holding Ethiopia.”
“Italian aircraft?” To Wavell, this was the crux of the matter.
“The Italians are throwing them in to try and slow down our advance. The Tomahawks are having a field day. They’ve shot down more than forty aircraft, mostly light bombers, but with a handful of CR.32s and .42s thrown in. We’ve had one Tomahawk shot down and three or four are damaged, but the odds are enormously our way. Even better, the Italians have brought the aircraft from northern Ethiopia down to try and regain air superiority. It won’t do them any good; they’ve only a handful of fighters and they’re CR.42s. Alan has ordered all our biplanes grounded; not that they were of much consequence anyway. That leaves the sky free for the Tomahawks down there; they can shoot at anything that isn’t a monoplane.”
Wavell nodded with a measure of relief. The first blow had been launched in Kenya because that was where the Italians were weakest and where the first squadrons of Tomahawks were based. He was gambling that the Italians would see this as a major thrust and would shift their air and ground forces south to match it. That would open the way into northern Ethiopia for the two Indian divisions in the Sudan. They would drive south, taking the Italian formations defending Ethiopia in the rear. Finally, with that battle under way, Maitland Wilson could launch his attack on Graziani and the supplies around Mersa Matruh with some hope of achieving tactical surprise.
The beauty of it was that each of the three operations was genuinely independent. Not one of them actually depended for its success on any of the others working. Each might work or fail on its own merits. In each case, the benefits they would bring by their success would be worth having. But, if all three worked together, then the success achieved would be, literally, worldchanging.
“Jai Hind!”
The call went up from the ranks moving up the hill. Subedar Shabeg Singh repeated the cry. He relished the sun gleaming off his bayonet and the sight of the waves of infantry that were moving against the railway junction at Kassala. The area had been seized by the Italians during the first days of the fighting in Sudan. A previous Indian attempt to recover it had been defeated due to heavy Italian air attacks.
Today, Italian aircraft were absent from the battlefield and the 7th Infantry Brigade was advancing in fine style. Having tanks in support was a help. Six Matilda IIs were moving in a manner that could best be described as stately. Their machine guns were rippling fire across the Italian positions. That was their job; to support the infantry. There were light tanks for the chase that would take place once the Italian positions were broken.
Overhead, the sound of artillery fire slackened slightly. The Indian inch howitzers. Those guns were more useful than the 18-pounders in very hilly terrain; one reason why the Indian divisions had a much higher proportion of them in their artillery regiments. The Italians were using reverse slopes to protect themselves from artillery fire, but the howitzers could lob shells over the crest to land on that reverse slope. It was an open question as to what they would hit that way.
The reduced artillery fire allowed Shabeg Singh to hear the sound of approaching aircraft. That had meant disaster a few weeks earlier. The Italian Breda ground attack aircraft had strafed and bombed the regiment, making the positions they had won untenable. They’d had to fall back; the shame of doing so still stung the Sikhs.
Today, though, was different. The aircraft were coming from the north. That meant they were supporting the 11th Sikh Regiment, not harassing it. Assuming that the pilots do not make a mistake, thought the ever-realistic Singh. The flight of Fairey Battles swept overhead. Bombs dropped on the defensive positions. The blasts and towering columns of smoke from over the ridgeline were the signal for the final push up the hill.
“Jo Bole So Nihal, Sat Sri Akal!”
The Sikhs sprinted across the remaining few yards of ground and jumped down into the Italian positions, preparing to take them with the bayonet. Instead, they found empty entrenchments and deserted defenses. The artillery fire had pounded some portions of the defenses, the bombing from the aircraft had done more, but the lack of Italian casualties was painfully obvious. The preparation had landed on mostly empty trenches.
The implications of that were still sinking into Singh’s mind when he heard the renewed whistle of artillery fire. This time, the difference in sound was immediately obvious.
“INBOUND!”
The Sikh troops scattered and took cover in the deserted Italian positions. In some cases, the safety they offered was illusory. Foxholes and trenches had been booby-trapped. The resulting explosions beat the arrival of the Italian artillery fire by a few seconds. The light cracks of the inbound pound projectile. The placement of the rounds made up for any lack of power. The Italian gunners droped their shots into the positions just seized by the Indians with almost uncanny accuracy.
They’ve pre-registered all the positions. The thought ran through Singh’s mind as he scrambled out from the dugout he’d occupied and got as far away from it as he could. Behind him, a pattern of the light shells covered the position he’d just vacated. Fragments whined around his head.
The artillery bombardment was joined by a crackle of rifle fire, punctuated by brief bursts from machine guns. Singh sneaked a look from the dip he had found himself in. The Italians were advancing quickly across the open ground. His eyes took in the black feathers on their helmets. Bersaglieri.
Their rifle fire was accurate and, combined with the precision support from the little 65mm howitzers, they were making the Indian positions too hot to hold.
The Sikh troops, very reluctantly, started to give ground, dropping back over the ridgeline to the dead ground beyond. There, they were relatively safe from the Italian guns. When the Bersaglieri crossed the crest in pursuit, they were greeted by a barrage of rifle and machine gun fire. Tthat drove them back in turn.