Unofficially, they were a German dagger pointed at Italy’s heart. The King, several of the less competent ministers and almost all members of the opposition, such as it was, had been placed in their custody. Mussolini, bolstered by their presence, had announced yet another efficiency drive – using German aid and advisors. In some ways, it was helping Italy; he’d heard that a new Italian radar system would be going into mass production soon, but it came at a cost. Italy’s would become nothing, but an adjunct to the German war machine – in pitiless combat with a super-advanced Britain. He’d heard that the King had planned to move against Mussolini, but it had been too late; the Germans were in control.
When are you going to attack the British? They keep asking, he thought bitterly. Do they not understand that the Navy is the only thing that Italy has of value; it must not be squandered. It’s the only bargaining chip we have; the one thing the Germans do not have…
He scowled grimly. Several hundred Kriegsmarine officers – the survivors of the Kiel attack that were not shell-shocked or wounded – were on his ships, helping to train the Italians and improve their systems – and, he suspected, to provide a cadre for a German take-over of the fleet. It was surely no coincidence that half of the crewmen had been ordered to remain on shore, rather than onboard their ships; they’d been forbidden to practice rapid crewing of the ships in case of a quick sortie.
We’re prisoners of the Germans, he thought, and then Conte di Cavour literally blew out of the water. A thunderous explosion shattered the battleship’s hull, blasting chunks of debris across the port, and then detonating its ammunition. In seconds, the battleship that had once carried the King to America had been blown to fragments. An air raid warning sounded, too late, as black dots swooped down from the sky, precisely targeting and slamming into the battleships, killing them one by one. Other missiles targeted the facilities; the half-empty oil tanks, the ammunition dumps, and…
Vice-Admiral Inigo Campioni had only seconds to realise that he’d escaped the Germans forever before a missile blew him and the docks into very tiny pieces of rubble.
Combat Zone
Egypt
24th July 1940
The tanks powered their way across the desert at very high speed, carefully avoiding the main Italian concentrations at Mersa Matruh before angling around to move along the Italian supply lines. Behind them, their support vehicles and infantry IFVs held back, waiting for the tanks to complete their part of the mission. Further behind them, every lorry and transport that General Wavell had been able to move up was also moving; heading directly for the Italians.
“Targets ahead,” the driver said. The tank commander checked the scope; it was several Italian lorries and a handful of the piss-ass tanks they were driving, ones that could never have stood up to a Matilda, let alone the Challenger main battle tanks that the British were deploying.
“Gunner, load high explosive,” he said formally. There was no point in wasting armour-piercing rounds on the crappy little tankettes. “Fire!”
“Firing high explosive,” the gunner said, and the tank shuddered. A single round shot over the desert and slammed into the Italian tank. It exploded in a single blast; killing the crew instantly.
“Fire two,” the commander ordered. “Kill them all.”
“Aye, sir,” the gunner said, as the other tanks commenced firing. One by one, the Italian tanks were picked off, the British shooting from well beyond the Italians’ range. There was no attempt to fight as the tanks slowed; the Warrior AFVs moving up to surround the lorries.
“Surrender or die,” the infantry officer shouted, as the infantry disembarked. The Italians showed the same willingness to die that the Iraqis had, seventy-odd years in the future. Trapped in a hopeless position, they surrendered quickly, even offering to drive their own lorries to the British camp.
“Time to move on,” the tank commander said. “Reconnaissance shows more convoys moving across the desert, and we don’t have any time to spare.”
He checked his GPS system. Losing the satellites had hurt their navigation, but now, with several navigation beacons set up, they could locate their position with a high degree of accuracy. “According to Recon, there’s a second convoy moving east ten miles west of us,” he said. “Let’s go put them in the pen.”
A second whistle echoed in the air and an ammunition dump exploded with an uncanny precision. Field Marshall Graziani shuddered; he didn’t know how the future British were doing it – he’d never heard of laser targeting from a high-attitude drone he didn’t even know existed – but they were slowly stripping away his forces from far out of his own range.
“Field Marshall, there is a British armoured car waving a white flag,” his Lieutenant said. “Perhaps they want to surrender.”
Graziani shook his head. The young man was naive; they’d lost all of the convoys that had been supposed to reinforce them from the irritating hen-pecking attack that was steadily wiping them out. Their shells – he was wondering if it was only one gun rather than the hundreds that had fought in the Great War – were diabolically accurate.
“Let’s see,” he said, lifting his vintage binoculars and peering through at the strange armoured car. It seemed tough enough to be a tank in its own right; he recognised the man sitting on the roof. General Wavell himself. “Put up a flag of our own,” he ordered. “I’m going out to meet him.”
The Lieutenant didn’t protest. Grazini walked behind him, allowing him to carry the flag. He hadn’t realised yet; hadn’t realised that the British officer was here to demand their surrender. He was dimly aware of Obersturmbannfuehrer Strudel joining him; his German uniform glinting in the sun.
“Good afternoon,” Graziani called, as Wavell jumped off the armoured car with a sprightliness that belayed his age. “What might I do for you?”
Wavell’s one good eye fixed him with a stern look; the upper-class Briton looking down his nose at the foreigner. He remembered that Wavell had served as an ally before, and that Italy had kicked the British while they were struggling for their lives. He scowled, cursing Mussolini with all the viciousness he could inside his head.
“I will not bandy words with you,” Wavell said finally. “Our… descendents have pushed their armoured units all the way into Libya and are advancing on Tripoli. Many of your units have been encircled, as you have been here, and have been rendered helpless…”
“We’re not helpless,” the Lieutenant said hotly. Obersturmbannfuehrer Strudel nudged him, not gently.
“You are helpless,” Wavell said. “I am assured” – there was a dark note in his voice – “that picking off your men one by one is possible, and it will be done if necessary. You have lost the puny tanks you sought to deploy against us; your supply lines have been cut, and you will die of thirst in a few days, sooner if we blow your water tanks open with a well-placed shot.”
A man hopped out of the armoured car. Graziani stared at him; he wore black body armour and carried a weapon that seemed to be almost as tall as he was. “I am prepared to accept your surrender,” Wavell said. “Your men will be well-treated, although you will understand that we have very little food at the moment. If you do not surrender, we will wait until you all die and walk in and take over.”