Of course, Hitler could not have found fifty divisions to carry out his threat, and soon Halder and Jodl convinced him that Spain was nothing more than a massive liability.
“We have only the one rail line from Marseilles to Barcelona open now,” he said. “The Spanish Army opened the frontier they were holding north of Hube’s positions and the British already pushed an armored Brigade into Madrid.”
“Why wasn’t it garrisoned?”
“It was garrisoned, my Führer, but with Spanish troops. All our divisions, and there were only three, were south near Seville and Gibraltar where the main British drive was happening. Given that the rail line back along the southwest coast of Spain is now subject to interdiction, I believe the best solution we have is to pull out of Spain entirely. The Pyrenees Mountains will prove a formidable obstacle to any Allied incursion into Southern France, but if we attempt to hold Spain, it will need far more troops than we have there now—and we both know we do not have those fifty divisions you spoke of.”
“Yet Gibraltar must be held,” said Hitler adamantly. “I designate it Festung Gibraltar, and our garrison there will fight to the last man—delay as long as possible.”
“We can give that order, and our troops there will certainly comply and stand fast, but need I remind you that we took Gibraltar with the threat of gasoline to be poured into the cave openings from above and ignited. I fear the British will not have forgotten that.”
Hitler’s hand was unsteady, yet his jaw was set and firm, his eyes smoldering with anger and resentment. “I will find out where Franco is hiding,” he said darkly, “and then I will send Obersturmbannführer Scorzeny in with his commandos and have his throat slit!”
No one said anything more, watching and waiting in the strained silence of OKW headquarters. The Werewolf was still in the throes of his tantrum, and a very dangerous beast when so transformed. Then Hitler composed himself, reached for his eyeglasses with an unsteady hand, and stared at the map.
“All of Morocco gone, and now Kesselring tells me he wishes to establish his defensive front at Algiers. What of Oran? Too far west, he says. The Allied air units in Spain will make any defense there impractical. Admiral Raeder has already taken it upon himself to move the Hindenburg and our other ships to Algiers. Why are my Generals and Admirals so eager to give the enemy ground, give them airfields, ports, and without a single shot being fired? Why?”
No one spoke.
“Very well. Spain is a nuisance. I will order Hube to withdraw his divisions through Barcelona at once, and they are to crush any impediment placed before them by the Spanish Army, swiftly and ruthlessly. For every German soldier harmed in this redeployment, I will have ten Spanish citizens rounded up in the nearest town or village and summarily executed! See that those orders go out to Himmler at once. Make provisions to watch the Spanish Frontier. As for Kesselring, he is to stand where he is at Algiers—not one backward step more! That port, and all of Algeria and Tunisia will be held. Further territorial losses in North Africa are unacceptable—no, they are forbidden. Thank God Rommel still holds the line in Libya. The British have been unable to move him for months! My other generals should take a lesson from him!”
No one present thought it wise to raise the point that Rommel had not been attacked for months either. But that was all about to change. Down on that front, a Lieutenant and Sergeant were studying the no man’s land between their position and the enemy lines. It looked to be the first war all over again, as they could clearly see the wire, and knew that the ground must be heavily mined. Then they heard an awful falling whoosh in the sky, seeing it scored by white contrails. Something came plummeting down on the ground ahead, seeming to explode into a hundred fragments. Then the ground erupted with an equal number of explosions, as if strings of fireworks, or more like sticks of dynamite were popping off one after another.
There was a thunderous roar, until the din and the explosions finally subsided, and the Sergeant looked at his officer, slack jawed. “Lord almighty,” he said. “What in bloody hell was that?” It was a peculiar mix of the divine and profane, but the Lieutenant had no answer for him.
What they had witnessed was a little gift from Kinlan’s MLRS artillery batteries, missiles that distributed hundreds of small bomblets all over the mined ground ahead of the British lines. They were the firecrackers. The dynamite were the German mines exploding that they had been sent to clear.
The men watched as the smoke and dust slowly cleared, blown off by a dry wind. Then the more familiar crack of the division 25 pounders behind them started, and both men settled in, knowing that would go on for at least thirty minutes. Yet as the heavy rounds fell, beginning in the no man’s land and then slowly walking forward towards the Italian positions, the adrenaline in their chests rose with each passing minute. It was time for the 50th Northumbrian to get back in the war, and they knew the whistles would soon be at the Captain’s mouths, and the mad rush would soon be on.
Chapter 12
Rommel had been correct. Around noon on the 1st of October, the opening barrage of the battle for Mersa Brega finally lifted, and 1st and 2nd Infantry Battalions of the 50th Northumbrian started through that blighted no man’s land. The last rounds had laid down smoke, but a cool breeze off the Gulf of Sirte was slowly blowing it inland. It still gave the infantry time to make that rush across the broken ground, the rifle teams surging forward, Bren teams behind them leaping into craters from the artillery barrage, and others setting up covering MG positions with the Vickers guns. A company of Royal Engineers would move up with each battalion, ready to get at the wire or any mines that might still bar the way.
The first enemy unit they encountered was the Recon Battalion of the Italian Littorio Division. Those troops had drawn the lot to defend the main coastal road, and on their left, beyond the parched salt pans, was the Ariete Armored Division. That unit would be assaulted by the 8th Durham Light Infantry, and the Queen Mary’s Rifles, each battalion again supported by Royal Engineers. The Littorio Division had no more than 36 M14/41 tanks in fortified positions astride the road, and when their forward screen of Fiat M13 Tanks was driven back by the Northumbrians infantry, they waited until the retreating screen had reached their lines, then the M14s began firing with their 47mm main guns.
Further south, the 2nd and 5th Seaforth Battalions of the 51st Highland Division were astride the Wadi that ran parallel to the coast. They would run up against fortified positions defended by the 8th Bersaglieri Regiment and the division AT guns. The dogged British infantry kept coming on, and after an hour, the 3rd Bersaglieri Battalion broke and began to withdraw. 3rd Nizza Armored Cars on their flank also withdrew, leaving five AB41s burning behind them, but this was the entire 8th Regiment, and the other two battalions held the line for the Blackshirts. Behind them, lined up abreast in several groups, was the full armored regiment of the newly supplied Ariete Division, 90 M14 Tanks. They were going to wait to see if the Blackshirts could hold and break this initial attack. If not, they were set to make a massive charge.
It was the opening act of Rommel’s stand at Mersa Brega. He found his army weakened by the loss of the 10th Panzer Division, and all Goring’s troops, but having had some time to resupply, receive new vehicles, and tanks, and most of all fuel, he was in much better shape than he was in Fedorov’s history after retreating there from El Alamein. His mood was sullen, but not the black despair that had prompted him to quickly abandon that defensive position in the old history. While he loved the defensive nature of the ground, it was still a very long way from his major supply base at Tripoli, and he knew how quickly a battle like this could eat up supplies, vehicles, and fuel.