Miles looked him over, sympathetically. “How’s that right arm?”
“Just a scratch sir. It’s nothing.” It was a little more than nothing, but Lyne was giving his CO the stiff upper lip.
“Well, it won’t be any consolation, but we lost the whole of Davidson’s brigade as well. Brigadier Birch and the 167th were the only troops that got out looking anything like an organized force. Damn if we didn’t get our hats handed to us in this one. The Black Cats have been run right off the field by the wolves. Three bloody Panzer Divisions, and that SS Mountain Division came up over the Jebel country as well and damn near cut the road behind us. The whole bloody line went pear shaped on me. The flank is a complete shamble.”
“I’m sorry sir,” said Lyne.
“Not your fault,” said Miles. “If I had known what was coming at us, I would have pulled back much earlier. The SS Motorized division got completely round your right.”
“The men fought hard, sir, but we just couldn’t hold them.”
Miles nodded, pursing his lips. “The whole division is hopping about on one leg now, but I still need you. Davidson got back as well, but he’s not on his feet. They’ve brought up a Provisional Brigade, all the chaps that made it off Crete. It’s yours. Find yourself a staff car and motor on down to Ad Dumayr. That’s where the Brigade is assembling. We’ll get you some help as soon as possible.”
Lyne was surprised to be given anything more than a latrine squad to command, but he saluted again, still trying to find himself after what he and his men had just been through.
“Have that arm looked at,” said Miles, “then get yourself a good meal before you leave. You’ll have the French behind you at Damascus, but I’m afraid you’ll be all we’ve got down there until Alexander can shake some armor loose from Gladiator. Do what you can to delay them on the road. Fall back to Damascus if you must, but we need to hold there. Understand? And Lyne… I’ll put in a good word for you with the brass up top—held in the face of overwhelming odds, and such. That sort of thing will look good in the dispatches. So, chin up and off you go. Here’s your second chance.”
Third chance, thought Lyne as he saluted again, this time with a bit of a wince. He would later go on to command the 7th Armored Division and lead it into Germany in another telling of these events, but for now, he was still a dispirited and troubled man, the wound to his right arm being the least of it. And his ordeal in the Syrian Desert was far from over. Lyne could already see the storm cloud of dust being kicked up by the Germans to the northeast. They were coming on like bad weather, and he forsook any thought of food, looking to find a jeep as quick as he could.
He would not have much time to rest at Ad Dumayr either, for the SS Wiking Division had swung around that smaller lava field to the north and was already finding the road south of Mihassah. In fact, he would not have any time at Ad Dumayr at all. It would serve as a good delaying position, with hills to the left and a lava field on the right. But that field was no more than 10 kilometers wide at that point, and it might be passable.
When he reached Ad Dumayr, Lyne found himself in command of five new battalions, all men who had been in Creforce the previous month. “Well, gentlemen,” he said to his battalion C.O.s on arrival. “Don’t feel bad about be run off Crete. Rommel’s chased me half way across the Syrian Desert, and that’s his dust up that road, so stand lively. We’ll dig in here and hold as long as we can, but if hard pressed, I have orders to fall back on Damascus. I’ll want the recon troops on the far right. All the line infantry should dig in between those hills and the lava bed.”
They were all the rest of that night digging in, while Lyne kept a nervous watch to the northwest. He knew the Germans operated day and night, and the last thing he wanted was to have a column of enemy tanks come barreling into his lines in the dark. Each battalion had no more than four Mark-I 37mm AT guns, and they had been relatively useless against the latest German tanks.
The morning of the 28th, word came that the company of French Armored cars that had been out on forward recon was attacked and driven off by the Germans, who were now only a little more than 15 kilometers from Ad Dumayr. Where was the help Miles had promised him? At noon he had his answer, but it was not what he expected. His new Provisional Brigade was right astride the main road and rail line from Damascus. He heard a distant train whistle, but then all went silent. Then he learned a train had come up from Beirut through Damascus, but stopped a few kilometers to the rear.
An hour later he heard the distinctive tramp of marching feet on the paved road, and got into his jeep to ride back and have a look. There came a column of infantry, rifles slung over their shoulders, and tins, canteens and helmets rattling as they marched. A young officer came up, wearing a red beret, and the Lieutenant saluted smartly.
“Lieutenant John Frost,” he said coolly, “1st Paras are here.” The man smiled.
“Airborne?” said Lyne.
“No, we came up by train this time. Too many fighters about to go jumping out of a plane. The whole brigade’s behind me. I’m just out on point. Where do you want us?”
Brigadier Lyne broke into a broad smile. “I don’t suppose you brought any six pounders?”
“Half a dozen or so,” said Frost. “But few trucks.”
“Marvelous. You see, we’ll be looking at a bloody Panzer Division soon. Possibly tonight. They tore up the 56th something fierce when they came around our flank, and I’m posted here with the Provisionals to try and slow the bastards down. Now, my men are dug in well astride the main road, but I’ll want you chaps on the right…. Out there.” He pointed east, across the dark, stony lava bed that reached up towards Ad Dumayr. “I’ve got a single battalion out there now—44th Recon. Can you reinforce them?”
“Good enough,” said Frost. He took off his beret, and replaced it with his helmet, then looked over his shoulder and whistled. His arm indicated where he wanted the column to go. Then he tipped the rim of his helmet with a wink, and marched off. Frost and his men took up a position just off the flank of Lyne’s main line, right next to the 1st Argyll & Sutherland Highlanders. That was the regiment that went by the nickname of “The Thin Red Line,” only it was khaki and olive drab now. Fitch had 3rd Battalion to the immediate right of Frost, but Dobie took 1st battalion south of the recon troops Lyne had already posted.
General Miles had told the Brigadier that he had his second chance, and it would be just his luck that the Wiking Division had taken the lead, the same troops that had cut up the 169th Brigade. Frost had his men in position, though the ground was so rugged and crusty hard that there was little in the way of digging they could do. The Paras took advantage of any undulation in the terrain, finding small rises to deploy behind, and setting up their MGs and Mortar teams. But Colonel John Frost had never seen the like of the men he would face that day in their desert camouflage uniforms.
His position was hit by 2nd Germania Battalion, with a Motorcycle recon company and a battalion of tanks in support. Needless to say, the few Piats he had, 3 in mortars and Vickers MGs were not going to stop those panzers. His line was hit with tanks, and forced back until the British brought up their 601st Tank Destroyer, with a dozen Achilles TDs mounting the 3-inch main gun. It was a good weapon, (76mm), with enough penetration power to defeat any German Mark III or IV tank. Later it would be upgraded with an even more powerful gun, the QF 17-Pounder that could penetrate 140mm of frontal armor at 500 meters.