He had executed a masterful plan, luring O’Connor out of the bottleneck at El Agheila, then making a rapid turning movement towards the 2nd British forward depot at Nofilia. That was the place he really needed, for it had the fuel that would allow him to keep up the fight. Unfortunately, the British got there first, and now he knew his game was over. They would never let him take that fuel without destroying it. So it was now or never. He had to beat the British here, or with draw.
Seeing the trap he was in, O’Connor had nonetheless stopped his 50th Northumbrian Division at Wadi Hamar, knowing the Italians could not move them. Then his line bent parallel to the coast with the 4th Indian, the Free French Brigade and finally his 7th Armored, which barred the way to the vital depot. On its left, the powerful 23rd Armored Brigade was massing like a clenched mailed fist, and then the one division he had withdrawn east, his 51st Highlanders, spread out in a long defensive front, guarding the flank of Nofilia and blocking the route to the coast.
Yet by this time, Rommel had all three of his panzer divisions massed south of Nofilia, and a decision to make. His Sonderverband 288 had spent a harrowing night further east on the extreme flank scouting the way in the event Rommel decided to persist with his envelopment. Several wadis cut their way to the coast near As Sidr where a road ran south into the desert. Wadi Rigel was the southernmost tributary, which then flowed into the dry sandy bed of Wadi Matratin near the coast. That road ran parallel to the wadis, and just a few kilometers to the west.
Perfect, thought László Almásy as he reached Hill 240, right astride the road. If Rommel turns here, that wadi will screen his flank. He can push right up this road to the coast and bag the whole 8th Army. But then what will he do with it? He would have one ornery cat in the bag, and I don’t think the Afrika Korps has the strength to destroy it, or the supplies to lay siege to it. As always, Rommel was counting on pilfering the enemy depots out here, and now he’s bunched up near Nofilia. The British won’t let that go easily.
He turned and found a motorcycle runner, ordering him back to report his findings to Rommel. “Tell him the way around this flank remains open, and there’s a good road running to the coast.” The man saluted, off in a cloud of dust to try and find the elusive Rommel. It was then that things began to get difficult. Almásy had turned to head for the best armored car he had with him that night, a nice long barreled 234, and had he been just a little quicker, he would have been killed. The vehicle suddenly exploded with a thunderous roar, the turret blown completely off. It was knocked on its side, every man within immolated, and what was left of it began to burn with hot, searing fire.
Almásy had been blown off his feet, his left arm nicked by shrapnel, though he was otherwise of sound body. Yet the suddenness of the attack stunned he and his men. “Leutnant!” He shouted. “Where did that come from? Can you see anything?”
“Nothing sir, the ground below is completely dark. There’s no sign of enemy movement at all. It must have been artillery.”
One hell of a lucky hit if that were the case, thought Almásy. He doubted that, for he could see no reason why artillery should find them where they were… Unless the British had taken the inland track f to Ar Rijel. He knew they had posted a reserve division at Mersa Brega. Perhaps it was heading this way, and this was one of those damnable little Kampfgruppes the British would sometimes build, out in front.
He was both right and wrong in his assessment. Almásy could read a map, like any good scout, and he had correctly fingered Ar Rijel in his mind as the only likely spot a battery of artillery might be set up. Yet how would the British have spotted him in the dark? The LRDG must be out here, he reasoned, and with each passing moment, he was getting closer to the truth.
Popski, Reeves, and a company of SAS commandos were out on that flank. They had fallen back to the wadis, their mission being to screen that area, and warn O’Connor of any significant enemy movement there. Popski radioed Reeves, telling him to keep an eye on Hill 210. “It’s right on the road,” he said. “If we get visitors, they’ll likely crown it soon.” And that was exactly what Almásy had done.
Reeves saw the heat signatures on infrared, his small company then in a perfect place for a nice ambush, about 2500 meters east of the hilltop. He got on the radio to Sergeant Williams, who was riding in one of his two remaining Challengers.
“Willy, see that vehicle up on top of the hill.”
“Nice and clear,” said Williams.
“Good. Put the Charm on it.”
“My pleasure, sir.”
Reeves was referring to the Charm 3 round fired by those heavy British tanks. It was the L27 APFSDS variant, which stood for Armor Piercing Fin Stabilized Discarding Sabot. As Almásy had seen, it had a rather devastating punch, blowing clean through the target, exploding every ready round in the armored car’s turret as it did so.
Reeves smiled when he saw that fire burning on the hill, just a little payback for the loss of his number three Challenger. It still pained him that he had to put the tank down with demolition charges, and all because of a bloody landmine that had blown off the track and badly damaged a wheel. It was something the Brigade had ample resources to correct, and that tank would have been operation again in a few hours, but the Brigade was gone, and he still had no idea why.
That night he played a game of ghostly death against the German scouting patrols. He would fire, then move, and the ranges he could kill at were so far that the enemy could never really see them, let alone answer their fire. The Germans lost three of the Sturmgeschutz that had been assigned to Sonderverband 288, and they never saw what hit them.
With dawn still a few hours off, Almásy decided he had taken enough. He lost those three Sturms, two armored cars, and a supply truck. Whatever was out there, and he had an inkling as to what it was, he wanted no part of it. He gave the order for his team to withdraw back up the track towards Rommel’s presumed position, but would soon find that the British had cut him off.
As for Reeves, he soon got a message direct from O’Connor, and it was somewhat puzzling. He was ordered to withdraw immediately towards Mersa Brega, and to take any and every vehicle under his command, leaving nothing behind. Those he had lost were badly burned, and though the Challenger was sound in its main body, its innards had been wrecked by those charges.
“Withdraw to Mersa Brega immediately and await further orders,” he said to Sergeant Williams. “Maybe O’Connor is getting the jitters and thinking to pull out.”
“He wants his 300 Spartans back at Thermopylae,” said Williams, and it was a very apt metaphor. In fact, it was the news that had shaken both Wavell and O’Connor that was behind that order, and it had come from even higher up, from Churchill himself. Those few remaining tanks, and the brave men in them, all as yet unborn, were now deemed to be more precious to Great Britain than the Crown Jewels. The order came down that Reeves was to proceed immediately to Agedabia, where he would be met by a special British receiving force bearing additional fuel. He was to replenish, and then proceed across the wide desert base of Cyrenaica, to a point southeast of Tobruk near the railhead.
“Looks like we’re being called back to Brigade,” said Reeves, not knowing that the Brigade no longer existed, at least not here. As they withdrew there came the welcome sight of a British armored cars, then a column of lorried infantry. It was actually the 1st South African Division, arriving at last from Mersa Brega. There had always been a standing order to keep his Challengers out of sight as much as possible, so Reeves found a glen for them, and sent the two tanks there. He briefed the brigade commander, directed him to Popski up ahead, and then waited a few hours while the column passed. Then he was on his way again, down the long desert track leading east.