“Good. Your 2nd Brigade is still at Beirut, am I correct?”
“It is, sir.”
“Then have it put on the trains and bring it here. As for that armor, when it gets here it will be our inside counterpunch if they break through towards Homs.”
“And what if they bypass?” asked Anderson. “They can reach the Tripoli Pipeline in another day or so.”
Wavell took a deep breath, rubbing his forehead, and looking very old and tired. “Then we fight,” he said. “They can’t very well leave what amounts to two divisions in their rear. They can run about if they please, but they’ll have to deal with us, won’t they? When 46th Division arrives things will look a good deal different. So we hold on, and we fight them. After all, that is what we’re here for.”
It certainly was.
John Bagot Glubb had taken his fabled Arab Legion right up the road from Dier-ez-Zour to perhaps the most defensible ground in the region. To the west, the imposing heights of Jabal Buliyah rose above stony flanks that were scored in every direction by dee winding wadis. It was therefore quite difficult to attempt any flanking move from that direction, particularly for motorized troops. To the east was the river, and beyond it the barren reaches of the Syrian Desert. That flank might be turned, but only by a force on that side of the river, and the only crossing points were up near Ar Raqqah. So any force that came down the main road on the west bank of the Euphrates would simply have to try and bull their way through the blocking position he had set up.
A fluent speaker of Arabic, and well-schooled in the ways of both the desert and the Bedouin tribes that inhabited the place, Glubb proved most useful. He learned everything he knew the hard way, in the desert itself, where he had once taken a 500 mile camel ride with the tribes. Now he adopted their ways, earning their growing respect as he did so, a leader from the British Empire that was embraced as one of their own.
To look at him one would not think the man capable of the things history recorded in his name. He was a diminutive, almost impish figure, with a round bulbous nose, deep blue eyes, sandy hair and ruddy complexion, with a small mustache. A wisp of a smile was often on his lips, and he listened much more than he ever spoke. The wound he had suffered in WWI when a bullet grazed his chin gave him an odd, cheeky look, and he had a quiet disposition that belied the inner strength of the man.
His troops were also strong men, hardened by the desert, a wild streak in them, but also the hardness of rock, and an implacable nature that would make them tenacious fighters. They had been recruited into the legion, wearing British uniforms, but with Arab headdress and the legion badge of a Royal crown above two curved scimitars. Their thick belts held a pistol on one side and a curved dagger on the other to augment their rifle or sub-machinegun. Bandoliers of ammunition were strung from each shoulder, the bullets jutting like sharp teeth. How Glubb had won their hearts is not entirely known, but they worshiped him, and would follow him anywhere.
He had set up at the village of Aannabe, astride the main road and on the heights of Tel Salem about 5 kilometers to the west. At noon on the 13th, he saw troops approaching, and the fists of his men tightened on their weapons. Glubb wasn’t a man to be taken by surprise. He had his small armored car company about 10 kilometers up the road, and now they reported by radio that the dust in the distance was a column of French troops—the Free French Brigade that had retreated from Ar Raqqah.
That was to be expected, he thought. Better to have them here with us than to fight it out alone up there. He got on the radio and passed the word on to Brigadier Kingstone, who had finally reached Dier-ez-Zour after a 175 mile road march over the last two days. The news he conveyed had a barb in it, for the French had reported that the Germans were now advancing on both sides of the river. Kingstone contacted the French, asking them to withdraw on Dier-ez-Zour and cross east of the river at Ayyash to cover that flank. He could then backstop both positions from this position in the city, and the 10th Indian Division was only a day behind him.
So Glubb settled in, brewing up a cuppa on the heights of Tel Salem, and looked over his “girls.” That’s what the British regulars called them, “Glubb’s Girls,” though they meant no disrespect. They did so because in spite of the fact that the Arabs were all issued uniforms, they insisted on wearing their flowing white desert robes over them, and their long dark hair streamed in the wind when they were on the move. But these ladies were not to be trifled with. They had a singular ardor for battle, and could often be heedlessly brave, forsaking any thought of their own personal safety in the interest of honor, and sometimes, vengeance.
They were a sharp sword that Glubb had somehow managed to sheath and carry on the hip of the British Empire, even though he was not technically in the service of His Majesty’s armed forces any longer. He had resigned his commission to focus on leading the Arab Legion, and today he had led it here to this desolate place, to face one of the best divisions in the German Army.
Oberst Frieburg had taken his 1st Regiment of the Brandenburgers right through Tayyibah Pass. Leutnant Gruber led the way, and when they reached As Sukhnah, they found a battalion of British regulars well entrenched around the village. They were the 9th Royal Fusiliers, a tripwire defense to warn of any enemy encroachment in that area, but now they would face a difficult fight. Frieburg deployed to attack on all sides, and by noon it was a veritable Rorke’s Drift of a position, machine guns rattling, mortars firing, infantry advancing under cover of smoke.
The Fusiliers, though badly outnumbered, held on in their slit trenches all afternoon. Near dusk the fighting subsided, and taking advantage of a gap in the enemy encirclement, the British leapt to their trucks and raced south. The alarm was raised, and that had prompted General Miles at Palmyra to deploy the bulk of his forces there to cover that flank. Unfortunately, that was exactly what Guderian had intended, for that regiment of the Brandenburgers was merely meant to make a demonstration by occupying that pass. They were in a position to move either east to Dier-ez-Zour, or west to Palmyra, and in either case, they would be severing the vital Tripoli pipeline.
As darkness fell, the British did not yet know how big the force was in the Tayyibah Pass, nor did they know that they had no intention of proceeding west to threaten Palmyra. General Beckermann was still deciding how to proceed after mopping up at Ar Raqqah.
“The French wanted nothing to do with us,” he said to Konrad. “Since we have them by the balls back in France, it’s no surprise they have none here.” The General was looking over his map.
“Look at that terrain to the west,” said Oberst Langen. “That’s impossible to flank if we take this main road.”
“Then take your regiment east of the river. Konrad, your Lehr Regiment goes with him. Take this junction here, and demonstrate towards Dier-ez-Zour. I want to see what they have up their sleeves there.”
“You mean to attack it from that side of the river? That won’t be easy. It looks like there is only one small bridge.”
“I don’t mean to attack it at all. You two are going to Baba Gurgur. The only reason we need Dier-ez Zour is for a watering hole. That said, Frieburg is already through this gap here. I’m ordering him east towards that place to support your approach. That move cuts their precious pipeline, but I don’t want that infrastructure destroyed. We’re going to need it after this is over. Once we determine what they are doing, then I make the decision on how and when we move into Iraq. Oberst Duren, that leaves you. Take 3rd Regiment right down the main road, and I’m adding both the Panzerjaegers and Pioneers to your force. Let’s see if they want to fight for that town.”