“Failing that,” Flynn continued, “they might try to make their occupation of Iran permanent by forcing us out of Basra. If they do that, they will fall upon Kuwait and chase us into Arabia.”
Shahan thought about the nightmare of Soviet tank columns getting within his new country and winced. “Can they be stopped?” He demanded. “Can we do nothing?”
“It depends,” Flynn admitted. “We keep smashing their logistics with air attacks, and of course we’ll keep doing that. Of course, they’re persistent… and they’re getting better with their own radar-guided guns. The longer they delay, the better-prepared we will be – and it’s not as simple a task as the map suggests. My own inclination is to attempt to hold Baghdad if possible, and then to counter-attack.”
Nr Damascus
Syria
24th March 1941
The day was hot, far too hot for Captain Dwynn as the small SAS team headed towards the city. It had fallen to German occupation after a short battle; exhausted by civil war, the inhabitants had hardly been able to put up a defence. A chunk of what had been Israel in 2015 was in German hands; Dwynn had heard about what happened to the inhabitants, those that hadn’t fled or died fighting.
“I think that’s our target,” Corporal Chang muttered. Dressed in Bedouin robes, the SAS team were blending in as much as they could. Chang’s face, very Chinese indeed, would have revealed far too much; he wore his face-cover almost as completely as a woman would.
“I never would have guessed,” Dwynn muttered back, as the German base came into view. It had been built around a small town; the inhabitants had been forced to assist in the construction of defences before being shot or enslaved. A woman’s scream drifted though the warm air; the Germans had clearly found ways of keeping themselves occupied.
“Bloody bad terrain,” Sergeant Vash said grimly. The Germans had camped out in the middle of a vast flat plain; sneaking up on the base would be difficult, if not impossible. Dwynn had no doubt that the Germans had mined the approaches; it was what he would have done.
“Remember, this is a simple raid,” Dwynn said. He picked up his scanner and held it up. “Only fifty or so Germans… probably SS scum.”
“What do we do if they still have some of the villagers captive?” Chang asked. “We can hardly kill them, and they have nowhere to go.”
“We’ll decide that when it happens,” Dwynn said. He glanced around, looking for a place to make camp. “We’d be better off attacking in the night, I think; we’ll set up camp a few miles off, and then come back at night.”
“You’re the boss,” Vash said. “I’m sure that there’s somewhere to hide on this godforsaken desert.”
Night fell quickly over the desert; the stars came out and glittered brightly in the sky. Unterscharfuehrer Jagar, a young SS recruit, shuddered as he saw the results of their handiwork. Nearly a hundred people had lived in the village; now they were all gone – apart from the pretty girls – and they had new defences.
I never signed up for this, Jagar thought. He’d listened to Radio Free Germany, even though it was banned and there were heavy penalties for doing so, but he’d never believed. The Fuhrer, one of the greatest Germans that had ever lived, who’d revoked the accused treaty and made German strong again – surely he would never have allowed mass genocide. It wasn’t until after basic training that Jagar had realised that the SS had special rights – and one of them was the right of access to the camp whores.
Jagar had been sick, the first time, and no harsh words from the Strumscharfuehrer had been able to make him go back in. His assignment to the construction unit ordered to build a forward base in Syria – intended as a punishment – had been almost a relief, until it had started again. He’d been forced to take a turn with the women – the Hauptsturmfuehrer in command had been… quite insistent – and it had revolved him. The fear and revulsion in the woman’s eyes haunted him; she’d seen her husband killed in front of her when she refused to suck the Hauptsturmfuehrer’s cock.
There was a spark of light in the darkness. Jagar jumped forward, lifting his new assault rifle, and smiled in relief. It was only the Hauptsturmfuehrer; lighting a cigarette. There was blood on his hands and Jagar realised with a sickening certainty what he must have done.
“There will be better whores,” the Hauptsturmfuehrer said cheerfully, as if he was discussing the weather. “Wait till we return home Henie; I’ll take you to a really high-class brothel, one where the heroes of the Reich get quality service.”
“Thank you, Herr Hauptsturmfuehrer,” Jagar said, wishing that he could just return home. This was no life for an engineering student, even one with impeccable Aryan blood.
“Or, if you’re lucky, you might qualify for the breeding program,” the Hauptsturmfuehrer continued. He wiped the blood off his hands on his jacket; the old training Strumscharfuehrer would have been horrified. “Think about that; a blonde Nordic beauty, willing to do her duty with the hero of the Reich.”
Jagar’s disgust must have shown on his face, for the Hauptsturmfuehrer slapped him on the back and continued on his way, back to the mosque. It was now thoroughly desecrated; it provided a communal sleeping room for the soldiers and the worker team. He turned to stare out into the darkness… when a streak of light shot past him and slammed into a building. A massive explosion shattered the building, blasting through the mosque and killing most of the SS troopers. A second explosion detonated near him and a chunk of wood struck him on the head. Darkness.
Dwynn was not bold, in the sense that he would risk everything on one throw of the dice. If he’d had the time, he would have arranged for reinforcements to be brought in by helicopter, or even asked the RAF to take out the village without the SAS being involved. Time was limited and resources even more so; it was the SAS that had to do the work.
“Attack,” he muttered into his subvocal communications equipment, and watched grimly as the two rockets picked off the main concentrations of German life. Considerable work had been done on increasing the yield of the new anti-tank weapons; they were now almost capable of damaging a Centurion’s frontal armour. Dwynn had, like many of the soldiers, favoured a weapon that could take out the most powerful British main battle tank, but ultimately had to agree that there were dangers in using a weapon that could fall into German hands. There was no point in giving them instructions on how to take out the so-far invincible tanks.
“Forward,” he yelled aloud, and ran forward. The Germans were shocked; the handful that were grabbing for their weapons had no time to react before the SAS were on them, depending upon speed and skill to defeat the SS. A German’s head exploded as Dwynn double-tapped him; another was coming out of a hovel buttoning up his fly when Dwynn shot him.
“Shit,” he muttered, as he looked into the hovel. A woman lay there, crying; her torn legs akimbo. “Don’t worry,” he said, and cursed his mistake before repeating it in broken Arabic. “We’re friends.”
He stepped back out of the hovel and looked around. The shooting seemed to have died down, so he lifted his radio. “Roll call,” he said. “Any live Germans?”