“You have said nothing about my division,” said Fisher.
“Ah yes… On my signal you are to move it smartly, back through Mechili, to this position here. Place your main front here along this wadi, and the bad ground to either side will protect your flanks. Gentlemen, if these dispositions are carried out as ordered, we will then have all three panzer divisions abreast, and we will attack south in one united push. Our intention will be to cut off the spearhead of their attack. Once it is isolated from the shaft of the spear, which I believe will be the regular 7th Armor Division under O’Connor, then that leading assault unit will have only two choices. It can either go on to Agedabia by itself, or it can turn to attempt to re-establish contact with O’Connor.”
“And after that?” Crüwell frowned.
“Well, let us see what happens first, General Crüwell. Let us see if my tea leaves tell me the truth.”
They looked out from the high point they were on, the bleak desert now swathed in hues of red and gold with the setting sun. Rommel took in the stony smell of the land, with just a hint of cooling in the air as night approached. The desolate beauty of the scene impressed him, but the thrum of anxiety within him belied the peaceful aspect of the land. This empty, forsaken place was soon to become a battlefield, and one where the fate of his Afrika Korps might be written in the sands with blood and steel. He could feel the night coming, growing, an ominous thing building at the edge of that painted horizon.
“The moon, such as it was, is already down,” he said quietly. “It will not rise again until a little after 05:30 tomorrow morning. After that sun out there finally sets, it will be dark as Satan’s cape. This is when they will come. So get to your units, gentlemen. If you hear me speak of the lion’s brew, that will be the code indicating the enemy is acting as I believe he will. On receipt of that signal, move like lightning, and make certain your pathfinders mark the route well. Notify me the instant you have your divisions on their assigned positions, and go with god, because the devil is coming to dance with us this night.”
“And if this battle does something you don’t expect?” Crüwell remained the Devil’s Advocate.
“I am more concerned that you may do something I do not expect, General Crüwell. But, if the situation deteriorates to the point where I believe a withdrawal is necessary, I will send the signal Westfallen.”
“What should that mean?
Rommel smiled. “Move west, Herr General, by any means possible, and as fast as you can. Get to Agedabia, or Mersa Brega, and stand fast. That is our last redoubt.”
The generals departed, and not twenty minutes later, as the first tides of that dark night gathered like the edge of Satan’s cape, Rommel got the radio call he had been dreading, from Hauptmann László Almásy.
“Herr General! You were correct! There is a large column of mechanized vehicles in the track heading west from Wadi Thiran! And I can see signs of another big move well to the north on the middle track.”
“Very good, Hauptmann. Save yourself, and screen that southern flank as long as feasible.”
Rommel waited for the briefest moment, then sent the word that he knew would be received by his generals with just enough time for them to react. The signal went out— Löwenbräu, Löwenbräu. Move!”
Almásy had run into 12th Royal Lancers, screening the southernmost column on that track with four companies of Dragons and Scimitars. They came up so quickly that one of his three detachments was overrun, and he barely had time to send his plaintive warning to Rommel. Behind them came the long lines of the 4th Indian Division, intended as the southernmost flank guard for this advance, but the main attack was that other movement he had detected on the middle track. Led by the 3rd Mercian Battalion, it was reaching like a steel gloved hand into the desert just south of the line Rommel had selected to post his three panzer divisions. Behind it came two more battalions, the Highlanders and the Scots Dragoons with the bulk of the Challenger IIs.
Three battalions. That’s all they were, but it had been enough in past engagements to smash right through a German panzer division like a wrecking ball. It would seem that the combined mass and weight of three German panzer divisions would be enough to roll down and smash such a small force, but things were not as they seemed in this desert war. The advantages possessed by Kinlan’s forces extended well beyond the thickness of their armor. Their mobility and firepower was many times greater than their size might indicate.
To begin with, from the German perspective, every vehicle they were seeing was a tank. The Warrior AFVs had a quick firing 40mm main gun that had the hitting power of a German Pak 50, yet one that could fire up to 200 rounds per minute on full automatic. That was seldom done, but compared to the typical rate of fire of a German 50mm gun, no more than 12 rounds per minute, a single Warrior AFV was therefore capable of putting out 16 times the firepower, and ranging out 2500 meters. The Dragon AFVs were equally capable, and the Scimitars could fling out their Armor Piercing Discarding Sabot rounds 4000 meters.
Then came the real tanks, the juggernauts that moved with alarming speed and smashed everything in their path. The Challenger IIs had topped off with 55 rounds each, a mix of HESH and CHARM 3 depleted Uranium armor piercing rounds. No armored vehicle the Germans possessed would survive a hit from the 120mm main gun, which meant each tank had the capability of destroying 55 enemy AFVs, and it could do so while remaining largely immune to enemy counterattack. The Chobham 3 Armor would defeat any weapon the Germans possessed. The only hope Rommel’s tankers had was in inflicting lucky hits that might destroy external equipment, tracks, or perhaps a wheel, rendering the Challenger temporarily disabled, but not killed.
To get any of those lucky hits, the Germans had to fire from well inside the maximum range of the Challenger’s main gun. Given the enormous sensory capability that Kinlan’s forces possessed, there would be no surprise ambushes here either. Battlefield drones were up, scouting ahead of the columns to find enemy concentrations. These were then noted on a digital map and tracked by computer as updated information came in. This kind of ‘situational awareness’, even in the black night beneath Satan’s cape as Rommel put it, was a massive force multiplier. The British optics and infrared were also invaluable when forces began to close with one another. So those 55 rounds in each Challenger II were going to find targets, well beyond the range of the German counter fire, and they were going to kill every one they hit. It was simply combat power beyond the reckoning of the German commanders, and the Devil was indeed coming to dance that night.
Part XII
Hill 498
“And so there must be in life something like a catastrophic turning point, when the world as we know it ceases to exist. A moment that transforms us into a different person from one heartbeat to the next.”
Chapter 34
The battle that was now gathering form and shape southwest of Tobruk was a strange mirror image of the ‘Gazala Line’ battle that was fought in May of 1942 in Fedorov’s history books. In that battle, the British had established a heavily mined front backed up by brigade “boxes” to the rear at vital locations like Knightsbridge, Bir Hacheim and El Adem. Rommel moved four mobile divisions southeast, refueled in the night and then sought to complete a wide enveloping movement around the mines and boxes, sweeping up towards Acroma and Tobruk.