1. The Orders
13 April, 1941
400 km south of Tobruk, Africa
Reichsfuhrerschlacht Luther Waldemar leaned under the main tentpole, the only secure piece in the tent. The desk was held up by spindles, and the chair didn’t even fold right. Part of him wanted the luxury of a hotel with servants, ice water, and crisp sheets on the bed – but the other part, the more feral part, wanted the smell of the artillery, the cries of the men, the roar and rumble of the tank below him. Standing in a tent and waiting, forever waiting – that was the way of modern war these days.
He heard someone knock on the pole outside. “Enter,” he snapped in crisp German. He knew all the dialects of the Fatherland. He knew all the langauges of Europe, including Russian, but he didn’t know all dialects or accents. He didn’t have time to find people to “teach” him.
The tent door flapped, letting in a yellow ray of sunshine and a scruffy, dark haired man. If he was a normal infantryman, he would never have passed muster, with a uniform that had seen much better days, haphazard sewing-on of insignia. The boots needed serious cleaning and repair. His hair was far too long for a soldier, but Luther didn’t think the man wore a helmet, not with what his job was. He did wear the normal soldier’s cap at a jaunty angle.
“Heil Hitler.”
The man grunted a response and gave him a lazy salute. If Luther was back in his SS uniform, he’d have let this man have it. But something told him not to let him have it just yet, not now. Luther turned his back to him, going to the desk. “You have been recommended to me by General Cruewell as the leader of a special unit.”
“Nein,” he said, and Luther glanced at him.
“German isn’t your primary langauge.”
“Nein,” he said again.
“What is?”
“Gaelic.”
Luther switched into Irish, “I understand that–”
“Nae tha’!”
He snapped his head up from the desk and gave him a glare that made most men fidget at the very least. The man met the gaze with one of his own. Not defiant, just confident. Another immortal, Luther thought, and filed that away for further discussion later. Luther said in Scottish Gaelic, “Is this better for you?”
“Aye.”
“Cruewell said you’d be a rough man to work with. I didn’t know how much.”
The man merely grinned.
“Fine. All you need to do is take your men and–”
“Was tryin’ to tell you. I ain’ got no men.”
Luther looked the man over. Can’t be just this man. This man? He wasn’t quite unpresuming but… “Just you?”
“Aye.”
Every man has a deathwish, he thought. “Anyway, you take out the first few rows of the trenches right in front of Tobruk.”
“I c’n do that.”
“Then do that tonight. Take one of the motorcycles and park it–”
“Dunna need a motorcycle,” he said.
“I don’t care how you get there. Do it tonight. The attack begins an hour before dawn. I want those trenches cleared.”
“Jawohl,” he said, and again gave him that lazy salute. Luther muttered a “Heil Hitler” after him and watched him go, a predator moving to kill.
Notes, if anyone wants to jump in:
(From Wikipedia, “Battle of Tobruk: Easter Attacks: El Adem”) “In the early hours of 14 April a further attempt succeeded in securing a small bridgehead through which the 5th Panzer Regiment pushed through.” History shows something different secured the bridgehead.
Also, the “Rats” mentioned are the Desert Rats from Australia. They were not in this place in history, but they were among the troops in Tobruk.
If no one has any adds, I have the next chapter on deck.