Three Kings (Kirov Series) by John Schettler

curving edge of the coast, for inland the ground rose in the
imposing terrain of the Jebel Akhdar , the Green
Mountains.
    O’Connor
could see that he had one last chance to turn a solid victory into something
truly decisive. If he allowed the remaining Italian troops to escape, he would
only end up having to fight them another day. So he stared at the map looking
for another way west, but found no roads fingering their way into the deserts
beyond Bardia and Tobruk. There were goat trails, thin tracks tracing their way
through the wadis, remnants of secondary roads that were really nothing more
than the tracks of a vehicle that had wandered there, and they were all
shifting with the wind on the sand.
    So he
decided. He would make his own road. He would simply get a column together and
point it west, cutting right straight across the wide base of the peninsula,
through the open desert. He Found General Michael O’Moore Creagh, commanding 7th Armored, and urged him to move via the thin trail
network through Mechili , Msus and Antelat .
    “Get
west,” he said. “Any way you can. I don’t care if you have to cannibalize every
unit you have, but gather any vehicle that has petrol and get them moving!”
    Creagh
made the decision to give this job to the intrepid commander of his division
reconnaissance unit, Lieutenant Colonel John Combe of the 7th Hussars.
    “Look Johnny,”
he said. “I’m going to cobble together anything that still has petrol and give
you a flying column, about 2000 troops in all. You do the flying. Head
southwest and position yourself defensively to block the Italian retreat to
Tripoli.”
    Combe
looked at the map, seeing nothing but blank space along the route Creagh was
pointing out. “Along what road?” he asked the obvious question.
    “There
isn’t one,” said Creagh. “At least not anything we would call a road. You’ll
just have to make your own. We’ll follow as best we can with the rest of the
division.”
    “Very
well.” Combe smiled. It was a classic cavalry action for his Hussars. He would
dash on ahead through the night, braving the unknown, scouting out the way, and
when he got there he would be facing off the remnant of the entire Italian 10th
Army, perhaps 30,000 men, and he would hold until relieved.
    “Got
it,” he said, without a moment’s hesitation, and “Combe Force” was born. He had
a squadron of his own 11th Hussars in old Morris and Marmon Herington armored
cars, supported by B Squadron of 1st King's Dragoon Guards, with a few Mark VI
Light tankettes and another handful of armored cars.
C Battery, Royal Horse Artillery, had a few 25 pounders, and he had some truck
mounted 37mm anti-tank guns from 106th Regiment RHA. The infantry element was
the 2nd Battalion of the Rifle Brigade, motorized infantry.
    And off
they went into the night, with the armored cars leading and Combe squinting at
his map and compass. Just follow a compass heading southwest, he thought, and
it was a fitting end to the operation he had led with his Hussars from the very
first. They navigated around wadis, over cold stony ground, the vehicles
jolting over the rugged terrain, through occasional thickets of desert scrub.
Fuel was always an issue, but he reckoned he had enough to get his force to the
west coast. Getting back was another matter, but that never entered his mind.
    The sun
rose on his force half way through that ordeal, and he pushed on, warily
watching the sky for any sign of enemy aircraft. None came. The last Italian
air strike had managed to zero in on a cluster of 8000 prisoners well behind
British lines, where the Italians suffered the ignominious humiliation of being
bombed by their own air force.
    By noon
the column had come up on a low ridge overlooking the road to Benghazi to the
north, a place called Beda Fomm . Combe was elated to
see that he had beaten the Italians to this place, and he busily set about
arranging his small contingent into a blocking force. His few Bren