Chapter 170
Part One
14th October 1941
02:49 AM
Airbase Bravo Three, West of Tripolis
The long row of Dakotas stood ready to receive their cargo and carry it to the enemy. For today the black out rules had been relaxed and the field was drenched in light. In front of the planes a regiment of Paratroopers wearing the battledress of the Paras and the regimental batches of 1st Parachute Regiment ( Royal Gurkha Rifles ) stood in rows at attention. The unit was highly trained and highly motivated. It's troopers were anxious to prove themselves, as were the Paras as a whole. The concept was new, and there were many that doubted the validity of the entire theory, so this invasion was something personal for them. All around them the invasion was starting, but what little they heard or saw where New Zealand and British Spitfires roaring overhead. However their ears and eyes were trained onto
Lt.Colonel ( promotable ) John Howard who had been with them when the Regiment had been formed as a normal Rifle Regiment in India, and who had been the one to guide them through their transition into Paratroopers. Like them he was dressed in the standard uniform of a Para and carried the same Sten gun as them. The only difference was that he had applied camouflage cream to his face, something that his men did not need. He was still wearing the red beret of the Paras instead of his jump helmet as he read:
“Soldiers, Sailors and Airmen of the British Expeditionary Force!
You are about to embark upon the Great Crusade, toward which we have striven these many months. The eyes of the world are upon you. The hopes and prayers of liberty-loving people everywhere march with you. In company with our brave Allies and brothers-in-arms on
other Fronts, you will bring about the destruction of the Axis war machine, the elimination of tyranny over the oppressed peoples of Europe, and security for ourselves in a free world.
Some of you have suffered during the shameful retreat from France. To you we say: Stand fast! Fight well! We are returning to the continent to fight and to stay. We shall not be forced of the coasts again.
We have full confidence in your courage and devotion to duty and skill in
battle. We will accept nothing less than full Victory!
Good Luck!
God save the King!
SIGNED: General Sir Alan Brooke ( GOC Middle East ), Lieutenant General Alexander ( GOC Market Garden )”
He paused as his men repeated the last sentence with one voice and sometimes heavily accented English. When the rumble had died down he spoke: “Soldiers of the Regiment. What lays before us is unknown territory for all of us. Unlike those at the top I am not a man for big words so let me tell you that I trust you will all do your duty. For King and Country!”
The troops mounted their aircraft. One after another the engines of the Dakotas came to life and soon the field was filled with the sound of dozens of radial Engines. In a scene repeated all over the coast, the planes one after another began to move. They thundered down the runway and the crews defending these airfields watched as one after another they soared into the air and disappeared into the Darkness.
They were the first wave of the 6th Airborne Division, but by no means the first British troops to set foot on Italian soil. Shortly after midnight another ten Dakotas, painted in dark black camouflage paint and with low-visibility markings sneaked into Italian Airspace right on the tails of the first wave of bombers that once again hammered the airfields in the region. The landing areas had been scouted in the last few days by reconnaissance Spitfires from Malta and now the Special Air Service was at last doing the job Colonel Stirling had initially thought it for. The job of No.6 Commando was simple on paper but more than difficult in reality. They were to go in even before the first wave and mark the landing zones for the main paratrooper assault, delay the Italian and Axis response and generally create havoc that might ease the job for the main assault. The SAS was equipped with the best and newest equipment the Empire and her Dominions could muster. Generally they looked like ordinary British Paras, save for the different machine Carbines and the fact that they wore a different patch on their uniforms and on the berets they had stashed away below their uniforms. On closer inspection more minute differences became apparent. Not all of them wore the stylized Union Flag on their right shoulders, in fact there were flags from all over occupied Europe. Belgians, Dutch, Polish, some where from the Empire's Dominions, all nationalities were represented. They also wore a different sort of jump gear, their harness was in a dark blue colour, as where their Parachutes themselves. This was due to one of the troopers suggesting the colour when they had had a night exercise with a live jump and the defending Red Force had seen the enemy come in due to the way their bright white 'chutes gleamed in the darkness. The men were motivated, the men were SAS, the men were the originals.
Drake sat near the open door of the Dakota as he watched the Mediterranean Sea make way for the shores of southern Italy. It was time to get ready.
“STAND UP!” The men stood up. “HOOK UP!” The men hooked their parachutes into the line that was going from the front of the aircraft to the back. “EQUIPMENT CHECK!” The men checked the equipment of the man in front of them and signalled all clear by a slap onto the shoulder. After that Drake turned around and waited for the green light to come on. When it did, Drake leaped out into the darkness. His parachute opened and he began his descent into Battle. The ground descended upon him fast and he brought himself into the prescribed position as he crashed through the overhanging trees and brushes. Once on the ground he freed himself from his parachute and went off to find the rest of his patrol. They had been right behind him, so they had to be nearby, most likely on the nearby clearing which was their nominal landing zone. He un-shouldered his weapon and walked the few metres towards the clearing where his men were already on the lookout for their equipment container. When Drake appeared on the clearing they almost shot him, but that was only to be expected. When he saw that Albin 'Sobbie' Sobczak was still without his new belt-fed Bren gun, he approached them and said in a low voice: “Where is the equipment container?” “No idea, Captain. Last I saw was that it was drifting towards these trees over there.” Sobbie said and indicated the direction. “Bloody hell, our signal lamps are in there.” Drake took a second to think and then said: “Allright. Single file, spread out and find that container.” The SAS troopers formed up and the three Patrols went into action as around them the Italian Air Defences tried to fight off the Royal Air Force. It took them the better part of an hour to find the container, only to discover that none of their signal lamps had survived the impact. After sending some expletives towards whoever had designed them, Drake ordered. “That doesn't change our mission. We have to clear the landing zone for the Paras, these men depend on us. Take the rest of the stuff and prepare to move out.” “And what about the markings, Cap?” “We'll improvise. After all, it's near that hamlet we talked about...”
So they moved out. The hamlet commanded one of the few reasonably large flat areas in these hills, and was near a strategic bridge over a valley that was one of the few in the area that could take heavy armour, and that made it a prime strategic target, and had an entire regiment assigned to it. The Italians also saw the importance of this bridge, but since no one expected any form of attack besides from the air, it was only lightly guarded by two Blackshirt machine gun posts. The hamlet nearby was was guarded by the rest of the squad and it contained a telephone line that no one knew about. It was the first target for the SAS troopers, and as they screwed the silences onto their guns lest they alerted the enemy too early, they knew that they had less than half an hour left to do their job before the parachute and gliderborne Infantry would arrive. For the next minutes the people living in the hamlet, mainly a farmer and his extended family along with some hands had the terror of their lives as twelve dark figures swept through the houses. The civilians were locked in their cellars, the Blackshirts, where they were not shot for resisting were bound and locked up inside the shed of the main farmhouse. After two minutes it was over, and Drake had not lost a man. The Blackshirts however had fired several shots. The machine gun posts near the bridge had heard them of course, but discounted them as accidents or drunk target practice. This allowed the British to secure a perimeter. However they still had the problem that there was no way to effectively mark the landing zone, but soon Drake had an idea. Rushing outside onto the flat ground they quickly dug a few shallow holes with their entrenching tools, filled them with a mountain of hay and then set them on fire, feeding them with whatever more they could find.
Luckily for them the area was not very easy. The bridge was almost five-hundred yards beyond a bend in the road, and so the trees and a small hill concealed the fires. Not that the Blackshirts noticed. By the time the first engines of the Dakotas and Stirlings were heard, the SAS had already closed to their position. Drake was the first to raise his gun, but then he stumbled over a tree trunk he had not seen in the dark and thereby alerted the Italians. The two men inside the small sandbag fortification fired a few short bursts, alerted the other post and filled the night with gunfire. “GRENADES!” Drake yelled, and five seconds later four grenades exploded the guard post and the men in it with a tremendous bang. Drake quickly went over his options. He had only seven men with him, the others were to greet the Paras on the landing zone. He also had little time, because behind him he could already hear the massive roar of engines from the transport aircraft that would deposit paratroopers all over the area this night. So he decided to simply rush the bridge. “Up and forward, lads!” he yelled and sprung to his feet. No more than three seconds had passed since the grenades had exploded and now the British were rushing over the bridge.
At the same time Lt. Colonel Howard was doing his own leap into the darkness and descended unto the clearing that was marked by the fires. Around him, the rest of the Regiment did the same and he wished there were more Horsa Gliders available. Still, when he touched the ground and had risen from it, he saw that most of his men were coming down where it was desired. One was landing right in one of the fires, but quickly extinguished the flames. He walked towards the Hamlet and was, much to his relief greeted not by gunfire but rather by some strangely amused fellow Paras that wore a cap badge that was unknown to him. One of them, with the rank badges of a Captain said: “Major Howard I presume?” “Indeed, Captain...” “Drake, Sir. Malcom Drake. I hear you are here for the bridge?” “You secured it already?” Howard asked with some disbelief. “Oh yes, Sir. Turns out the Eyties only had a few rickety machine guns defending it, not the 'better part of a battalion'. Courtesy of 22 Special Air Service Regiment.” The two Officers walked over to the Bridge with the Gurkha Paras behind them. “I heard about your lot, Captain.” “All rumours, Sir. Now if you excuse me, we have some hell to raise.” With a quick salute Drake moved off, gathered his men and disappeared into the fading darkness. Howard meanwhile entrenched himself, because sooner or later the Italians would try to send reinforcements through here to defend against the main landings. As he walked back towards the hamlet where three of his men were guarding the Prisoners, he thought of Drake and his men. Doing what his own Regiment had done was dangerous enough, but these men had jumped into enemy territory with no guidance at all, and yet they were cheerful and seemed to see this almost like a sportive event....
Headquarters of the German Military Mission to Italy, outside Taranto
two hours later
The aide de Camp to Lieutenant General Rommel shook his commander's shoulder. Rommel refused to open his eyes and asked: “Why do you wake me, Meyer?” “Sir, there are reports of British Paratroopers landing to the west of here, reports are sketchy, but at least four Regiments worth!” Rommel was suddenly wide awake and had his boots on within a second. As he was putting on the rest of his uniform he asked: “Where are these reports coming from?” “The Italians South-Western Defence district, Herr General. They lost contact with most of Calabria about two hours ago, and when they send some motorized patrols to investigate, they ran into several ambushes. Heavy air activity with paradrops following is also observed.” “Get me General Marconi on the telephone and ask him what the hell is going on.” They entered the map room of the headquarters and Rommel asked next: “Has the 25th already been called back?” “Yes, Sir, as per your standing orders. 7. Panzer is ready to move within three hours.” Rommel wished it was faster, but simply nodded. “Sir, do you think it's....” Rommel laughed and said: “If it is, Meyer, then for both them and us it will be the longest day.”
[Notes: You didn't expect that, did you?]