Chapter 160: Death Dunes
The Anglo-French intervention in the Middle East caused an uproar across society.
Newspapers argued. Parliamentarians debated. Workers in cafés cursed the price of war while merchants calculated what war would do to contracts and shipping. Churches spoke of civilization. Radicals spoke of imperial greed. Pacifists warned that the world had only just survived one great war and was now sleepwalking toward another.
Yet public opinion had never been the hand that turned the wheel of empire.
Once the decision had been made at the highest level, the machinery began to move.
British and French expeditionary forces, heavy with weapons, supplies, artillery, and men, landed respectively at the Port of Haifa in Jordan and the Port of Beirut in Lebanon.
Even amid economic crisis, the military reserves of two old great powers remained formidable.
Crate after crate of munitions sealed since the Great War was hauled out of warehouses and loaded onto the docks. Boxes of rifle cartridges, yellow brass gleaming dully beneath the sun, were stacked beside artillery shells still smelling faintly of grease and old wood. Within days, more than a dozen coastal warehouses were filled with ammunition.
Jordan had no usable modern airfields, so the Royal Navy simply sailed two Invincible class aircraft carriers into the Mediterranean. Dozens of aircraft circled above the coast, their engines droning over the ports like iron wasps.
To almost everyone watching, this was a war whose outcome had already been decided.
The disparity in equipment was too enormous.
It was like armored knights riding down a field of farmers who could barely hold their knives straight.
The Jewish settlers and their provisional authorities also understood that this was a rare opportunity to ingratiate themselves with the two great powers. They poured money into procurement, bought food, purchased medical supplies, paid for transportation, and used their wealth to make the expedition as comfortable as possible.
For the first time, the two previously quiet ports became crowded with cargo ships, warships, barges, and military transports. The rations prepared for the arriving British and French soldiers were luxurious to the point of absurdity.
Beef could be eaten at almost every meal.
Under such circumstances, even the late June heat failed to drag morale down. Sweat soaked through uniforms, helmets grew hot enough to burn the scalp, and the desert wind felt like it had passed through an oven, yet the soldiers laughed, smoked, cursed, and marched on.
Within one week, the rebels in Jordan and Lebanon gradually fell silent.
The unrest seemed to fade as suddenly as it had erupted.
The people who had bared their fangs only days earlier seemed to have returned to being docile sheep.
Inside the Anglo-French Joint Command, optimism swelled to an unprecedented height. Pacifying the Middle East within two months no longer sounded like an empty boast. It had become a goal close enough to touch.
In the command center, British Commander in Chief William Keir stood over the map, his gloved finger resting on a red circle drawn around Riyadh, the Saudi capital.
For Keir, this command was more than a battlefield assignment.
It was an opportunity.
The faster he won, the more brilliant his record would appear. A clean victory in the desert would give the Army a larger share of future funding and secure his own name among the men who had defended the empire at its most dangerous hour.
His gaze drifted from Jordan toward another British possession in the Middle East.
Oman.
If the main force advanced on Riyadh from Jordan, the distance would be long and the enemy would be alert. The Saudis would naturally expect an attack from that direction.
But if two divisions were sent by sea around to Oman, and then advanced inland from the rear, Saudi Arabia, distracted by the front line, would inevitably neglect its southern defenses.
In that case, forget two months.
He might return to England with Ibn's head within one.
"Younan."
The adjutant beside him immediately straightened.
"Yes, sir."
"Order the commanders of the Thirteenth Infantry Division and the Tenth Mobile Division to sail for Oman. They are to move inland from there and strike directly toward Riyadh."
Keir then tapped the northern line of advance.
"The Third Infantry Division, the Twelfth Infantry Division, and the Sixth Cavalry Division will advance from Amman toward Iraq."
The adjutant saluted sharply.
"Yes, sir."
Meanwhile, in Riyadh, Ibn had just finished the morning council.
He had once again suppressed all proposals for surrender.
The moment the meeting ended, he hurried toward the operations room.
Inside, Vorbeck was patiently explaining to several Arab officers how to use desert terrain to inflict the greatest possible damage on the British Army.
"First Division," Vorbeck said, pointing to the map. "Have all civilians in the border region near Oman been evacuated?"
A bearded officer nodded.
"Mr. Vorbeck, that region is the Empty Quarter. There are almost no residents there to begin with. I have sent men to evacuate the people living in the small towns near the water sources. According to your orders, two infantry regiments trained in guerrilla warfare and familiar with the terrain have been broken up and scattered across the important desert routes. They are guarding the small towns and wells."
Vorbeck nodded with satisfaction.
In the Middle East, the high heat lasted from early June until late September.
The British had set themselves a target of winning the war within two months.
Coincidentally, Vorbeck had also set himself a target.
Within three months, he would make the British ask for peace of their own accord.
A week later, the commanders of the Thirteenth Infantry Division and the Tenth Mobile Division completed their assembly in Oman.
Their first task was to find local guides.
They searched everywhere.
Unfortunately, even though this region had been a British colony under long cultivation, the residents familiar with the desert, especially those who had traded with Saudi Arabia for years, refused to guide them.
Even at gunpoint, they refused.
In the eyes of the local people, Britain had already become inseparable from the Jewish settlers. News that the British had allowed the Jewish authorities to seize land at will had completely eroded the trust once placed in British soldiers.
Even when the soldiers offered generous sums, the only answer they received was the same.
"No."
There was no other choice.
Division Commander Deon Rica, who had sworn before departure that he would take Riyadh within one month, could only order maps distributed to every squad.
Under cover of night, the expedition entered the deadly sea of dunes.
At first, everything went smoothly.
The terrain was open. The night wind drifting across the dunes was cool. The soldiers riding at the front in the reconnaissance armored carrier even had enough leisure to smoke and chat.
"Bloody hot in the day," one soldier muttered, exhaling smoke through his nose. "At least the nights are decent."
The taller squad leader lowered his head and studied the map. After estimating the distance, he said, "At this rate, we should reach Kara Town around noon. Let's finish this quickly. The Middle East is a furnace. London is far more civilized."
"Civilized?" The big man carrying a Lewis light machine gun snorted and accepted the half smoked cigarette the squad leader handed him. "Just standing here, I feel naked malice."
He took a drag and wiped sweat from his neck.
"It is not just this damned weather. The people here are the same. This is the first time I have felt like a criminal. Do you understand? I do not even dare tell my family I was sent to the Middle East."
A soldier with a scar across his face leaned against the inside of the vehicle and said quietly, "Before, we could at least say we were fighting for the country. Who are we fighting for now? The Jewish settlers?"
The atmosphere inside the carrier changed.
The squad leader sensed the danger in the conversation at once.
He reached over, plucked the cigarette from the machine gunner's lips, crushed it under his boot, and gripped his rifle.
"Enough. Sleep."
No one spoke again.
One by one, the soldiers leaned against the metal interior and drifted into uneasy sleep.
Then, just as their consciousness blurred, a gunshot cracked through the night.
Bang!
The bullet struck the front wheel of the armored carrier.
The driver cursed, jerked the steering wheel to the right, and the vehicle lurched violently before grinding to a stop in the sand.
"Enemy attack!"
The squad leader woke instantly and shouted, "Prepare for battle! Do not open the door!"
But it was too late.
The dazed machine gunner, still half asleep, instinctively yanked the door open.
Bang!
A bullet grazed his shoulder and tore through flesh.
"Batu!"
The squad leader dragged him back, drew his scoped Lee Enfield, and through the narrow gap caught a fleeting glint in the distance.
There was no time to aim properly.
Bang!
He fired at once, then slammed the door shut.
Silence returned.
Only the wounded machine gunner's ragged breathing remained inside the vehicle.
The squad leader pressed his ear against the door.
Nothing.
Did he hit the shooter?
No one knew.
They waited in suffocating tension.
One minute.
Ten minutes.
An hour.
Only when dawn spilled pale gold over the dunes did they finally dare to confirm that the attacker was either dead or gone.
The squad leader opened the door and stepped down.
Then he looked toward the driver's seat.
The driver was dead.
A ricocheting bullet had entered through the open door during the brief chaos and struck him by sheer chance. Worse still, the same bullet had smashed through the radio set.
The squad leader stared at the destroyed equipment for a long moment.
"Damn it."
There was no other choice.
They had to walk.
The desolate desert stretched endlessly in every direction. As the sun rose higher, the temperature climbed with terrifying speed. The air above the dunes shimmered, twisting the horizon into waves of heat.
Everyone stripped off whatever they could.
But removing clothes did not lower their body temperature. If anything, the sun became more merciless. Their skin burned, sweat poured from them, and every breath felt like inhaling hot sand.
Half the water in the oil drums was drunk.
The other half was poured over heads, necks, and arms in desperate attempts to cool themselves.
Batu, the big machine gunner, gasped heavily. His face had turned deathly pale. Sweat soaked the bandage on his shoulder, and the wound had already begun to redden and swell. Every movement made his jaw clench with pain.
The short soldier supporting him suddenly looked up.
"A well!"
His cracked lips trembled with excitement.
"I see a well! And a vehicle! It looks like the Second Reconnaissance Company from the Mobile Division. They must have arrived last night!"
He tightened his grip on Batu.
"Hold on, Batu. We are almost there."
The squad staggered toward the small town.
There, beside the well, stood a water barrel.
The short soldier helped Batu forward little by little. The others stumbled after them, eyes fixed on the well as if they had seen heaven itself.
Just as the short soldier was about to draw water, the squad leader, who had entered a nearby house searching for the other unit, rushed back out.
His face had gone pale.
Inside the house, bodies lay scattered across the floor, their faces twisted in agony.
Poisoned.
"Do not drink!"
He shouted with all his strength.
"Put it down!"
.....
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