The GINA Mirage

By Bertram Ellis

The Allies have invaded Italy. Men and arms are being shipped from the Middle East until torrential rain and tough German resistance slows the advance. A troop ship is torpedoed. Men must now be held in transit camps waiting for transportation. Men of the U S Army Air Corps are sent to an RAF base at El Khadar in Egypt. The men, frustrated with the delay, enduring unrelenting heat and long empty days rebel and fight one another at the slightest remark. They must be put to work before someone is killed. They are ordered to repair a broken abandoned bomber. German spy ring informers hear rumors of unusual activity with the British and Americans at El Khadar, a base reported as inactive. The GINA, German Intelligence North Afrika reports Allied HQ in Cairo have no information on the project. It must be top secret. The rumor of work on a secret weapon is reported to Berlin. Orders are issued. Destroy El Khadar.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bertram Ellis
• Release date: Apr 15, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301525102

Bertram Ellis

Bertram Ellis had a successful career with the de Havilland aircraft company of Canada. He was a pilot until he lost his licence due to deteriorating vision. He has traveled the world, Europe, Africa, the Middle East the far East and South America.Among his adventures he has been blown up, shot at and imprisoned briefly in Saudi Arabia. Lost in the Sudanese desert south of Omdurman,fished the Mighty Zambezi. During all his adventures he has kept his belief in the essential goodness of ordinary people. He is a published author of short stories. A handbook on how to write your memoirs. Since retirement he has presented seminars on how to write your memoirs, at no charge, for many years. He lives in St. Catharines, Ontario, Canada with his artist wife Karen. He has three children and ten hgrandchildren

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Prologue

It is 1943. Italy has surrendered. The Allies are fighting desperately to break Field Marshal Kesselring's winter line. The fierce winter weather has and torrential rain has stalled the Allied advance.

Back in Britain, Supreme Headquarters, Allied Command has completed the plans for the invasion of Hitler's 'Fortress Europe'. Battle seasoned troops are needed to train the armies and spearhead the invasion. Some British and American troops, veterans of the victories in North Africa and Italy, are being sent back to Britain in preparation for the final great battles ahead. The majority are to be transported to Italy. But, the plans are in tatters. With the stalled battle lines, there is nowhere to base fresh troops in Italy until the Allies move forward. Transportation is strained to the limit. Men are held in transit camps waiting for transportation to become available.

R.A.F. station El Khadar was a busy operational unit during the North African campaign. The aircraft and their crews have moved on to Italy, leaving behind a handful of men to administer its new function as a transit camp. The men who pass through El Khadar are seasoned desert rats, impatient to move on to Italy or to return home to Britain.. In the desert remoteness of El Khadar, they wait anxiously for their movement orders. Their enemy is now boredom, boredom without relief in the sweltering remoteness of the timeless desert. Fights break out over the smallest insult. When men of the United States Army Air Corps arrive at El Khadar, tension is strained to the breaking point. Then fate deals a disastrous blow, a message sent in error informs them that, 'All postings are deferred.' The angry, frustrated men are ready for mutiny. Something must be done, immediately, before they start killing one another.

Chapter 1.

The morning sun was low over the distant Italian mainland as the ancient Blenheim reconnaissance aircraft came to the turning point of its patrol. The sun lit up the underside of the aircraft as it banked, turning onto a return heading.

Inside the cockpit the pilot thumbed his microphone, Keep alert, that's enemy country below. Anyone see any signs of activity?

The crew looked over the empty Mediterranean and the coast of Sicily. The German army was in retreat somewhere down there but from this height there was no sign of enemy movement below. They had only been flying for an hour but already their senses were dulled by the monotonous drone of the engines. They scanned the skies anxiously for any sign of enemy fighters.

Nothing moving down there, skipper, the navigator reported.

Radio operator here. One minute to our first report, sir.

Roger, go ahead.

The radio operator watched the second hand of his watch sweep up to the hour, then switched his radio to transmit. He keyed the code words, 'Fine weather,' in morse code, which meant. No sign of any enemy activity in our patrol area.

He switched the radio back to 'listen out' and sighed into his mask. Five more reports, five more long hours before they would head for home.

As if the radio call had been a signal, three Focke Wolfe 190's suddenly appeared out of the morning sun.

Bandits! Six o clock, the gunner screamed. He swung his turret to bear the guns on the swiftly approaching aircraft and started firing even though he knew they were out of range.

The pilot slammed the throttles to full power and threw the aircraft into a dive.

The fighters steepened their dive and swept down after them. Tracers arced down through the sky. The pilot desperately threw the aircraft on its side. The fighters followed, their tracer bullets and cannon shells raked the aircraft. Cannon shells smashed into the cockpit, the pilot's body was torn apart. The instrument panel shattered. The windshield shattered into a thousand pieces. Flames erupted from the port engine. The port wing folded up, broke off and spun uselessly away. The Blenheim hurtled down engulfed in flames, twisting in its death agony. Down to the sea, two miles below, breaking up as it fell.

The German fighters spiraled down after it, like vultures, and watched it crash in a cloud of spray and disappear beneath the surface of the sea. A plume of greasy smoke marked its grave for a brief moment.

The destruction of the reconnaissance aircraft signaled the start of operation Sea Horse. Dozens of small craft sailed from under their camouflage nets laden with troops and tanks, trucks and artillery sailed headed for the Italian mainland. The bulk of German armor and fighting equipment was being safely ferried across the Straits of Messina.

A captured Blenheim flown by a Luftwaffe crew took up the patrol and every hour sent a signal, to report, Fine weather continues code for - No enemy activity in the patrol sector.

As they returned to the turning point an hour later the crew looked down at the crowded straits, at the ships carrying their comrades safely to the Italian mainland under clear blue skies. They congratulated one another. German military intelligence had successfully stolen the enemy's secret codes once again. Whoever they were, those secret agents who did such dangerous work, they wished them well and a safe return to the Fatherland.

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Chapter 2

The following day in a small office in a Allied Headquarters building in Cairo, Major John Martin, military intelligence, dressed in a brown galabia, held a meeting with two of his men, and an American, military intelligence liaison officer.

Major Martin was angry, he puffed impatiently on his cigarette and blew smoke in the air. His men, both Lieutenants, sat on the edge of their chairs, hating the smell of the tobacco, but afraid to protest.

The chief is bloody angry at us. He thinks GINA has someone in HQ, someone who supplied him with the code of the day. I want to know what everyone, from the lowest bloody private to the senior staff officers, who had access to the code, was doing from the time the code was released.

Can we correlate our intelligence, sir?

Go on, Martin barked.

The downed aircraft crew were given the code of the day by RAF intelligence, sir.

And?

The men looked at one another. The U boat attack on the troopships last week. The sailing and convoy assembly time was Naval intelligence. If we can find someone who had access to the reconnaissance code and the sailing orders, we might have a lead, sir.

Put some men on it.

Yes, sir.

Have you followed up on the leads the police gave us?

They were false, sir. I think we were sent on a wild goose chase. GINA must have been laughing at us.

The major slammed his fist on the table. GINA's not laughing. They're professionals. Whenever I think we're getting close to them, they throw us off the scent or we lose our men. They've been too damned successful for too long. It's time we put them out of business. What a fucking disaster. The enemy ferried most of their tanks and guns across the straits in broad daylight. They were sitting ducks while our people were asleep with their fingers up their arse.

Amen to that. How come you call 'em Gina? Sounds like an Italian whore, the American Captain spoke for the first time.

German Intelligence North Afrika, G.I.N.A. John glared at him.

"You want me to check the staff, sir?

I want you to get your men to check every man who had access to the codes.

It may have come from one of the field units, sir.

I don't think so. Only GHQ Cairo had the code. It wasn't released to the RAF until an hour before the reconnaissance aircraft took off, in fact while the crew was being briefed. The enemy had no time to put their operation into effect on that short notice. No, I think the leak occurred in Cairo. This operation was planned to the minute. We know that the first radio report was ours. the aircraft was shot down some time between the first and second reports. The damned radio operator at base said he was familiar with the operator's morse fist and it changed after the first report. He put it down to turbulence the aircraft was flying through and never thought of it again until we questioned him.

Then GINA must have someone inside the C in C's office, sir.

Fucking obvious. Someone with access to sensitive information. I've already spoken to the C. Everyone is in a hell of a flap, someone will be get a rocket for this.

You have some suspects why don't you round 'em up? the American growled.

I've asked the Gyppo police to round up German sympathizers and see if they can get anything out of them.

You guys aren't tough enough.

You think we should rough them up?

Yeah. You have an idea who they are. Arrest the bastards and beat the shit out of them, they'll talk.

Jesus, I wish we could, sir. This isn't our country. We'd have to arrest half the Egyptian military brass and some of their ministers. There'd be hell to pay.

Have you tried posting a reward? Money talks.

We have a standing offer. We receive information every day, most of it useless. I'd pay a thousand pounds for a good lead.

So what are you doing?

We investigate every suspect and pray something turns up. Now that the war is turning in our favor the informers are more numerous.

You guys are just waiting for them to do something dumb.

The major rolled his eyes to the heavens, fucking know-it all yanks, he thought.

Chapter 3.

Airman Smithers heard them first They're coming Sarge! he called.

The other airmen looked up from their desks, then glanced at one another, trust Smithers, always sucking up.

Sergeant McNeil picked up the telephone and said in his soft Scottish burr, Duty officer . . . They're on the way in sir.

Thanks Jock, I'll be there when they unload.

Thank ye, sir. He replaced the phone and glanced at Smithers, Well man, call the cookhouse, he said impatiently. Smithers picked up his phone, Paddy, you ready to feed five thousand? They're on the way in.

Screw you Smithers, you think it's bloody funny don't you? You should try cooking in this heat, the telephone slammed into silence.

The unmistakable sound of Bedford QL lorries, laboring through the sand, came through the window. The airmen stirred at their desks, reluctantly moved papers, scratched their heat rash, lit cigarettes. The ceiling fans stirred the sluggish air, dispersed cigarette smoke, but did nothing to dispel the suffocating heat. The buzz of flies attacking the window screens seemed louder in the sultry air as the engine noise faded. They listened for the sound of the drivers changing gear. The noise would grow louder as the lorries came into the camp, past the broken sign, ROYAL AIR FORCE STATION. EL KHADAR.

In the cab of the first lorry Warrant Officer Bill Brown opened his eyes wearily when the driver changed gear, breathed a sigh of relief, and closed them again. Thank God they'd arrived. He was hungry and dirty. He licked his dry lips. His face felt desiccated with, sweat streaked, dust etched, creases. The prickly heat in his armpits and groin burned and itched as sweat trickled through his body hair. God, how he hated this country. The desolate harshness with no escape from the pitiless sun. He opened his eyes. The bloody driver was still nattering away.The cab was like an oven, the engine cover beside him too hot to touch. He peered through the rear window slot. The lorry was crowded with men facing one another, backpacks and kitbags heaped between them. Early that morning, in the cold darkness of an Egyptian dawn, they had started the journey singing bawdy songs and talked excitedly about their chances of being posted to Blighty, or on to Italy. Italy, the land of beautiful, raven haired, women. As the long day dragged on, the men slumped in sweaty stupor. The featureless terrain passed by unseen as they dreamt of home, of a green and cool land, trying to ignore their aching bodies, their sweat soaked KD. Hanging on for the blessed moment when this would all be a thing of the past.

. . . that's El Khadar sir. Used to be a bomber station. The squadron got posted to Wopland and they don't fly 'ere now, the driver said.

Brown's eyes swept the airfield. Christ, what a bloody awful looking place, he muttered.

El Khadar, a dot in the featureless stony desert. Rows of sun faded brown tents, squatting in the sand, a handful of drab Nissen huts surrounded by a barbed wire fence trailing tattered rubbish. As he surveyed the dreary scene a sand devil rippled through the tent lines, rustling canvas covers, picking up dust and odd pieces of litter. It died, the dust shrouded litter floated lazily to the ground. Disused roads, covered with drifts of sand, led to neglected runways which shimmered in the distance like silver lakes. A forlorn creaking, corrugated metal hangar stood with its doors agape and hanging crookedly off their tracks. Beside it, the wrecks of aircraft, abandoned work stands, scrap metal and worn out tires.

The engine roared briefly as the driver smoothly double declutched and changed gear, he glanced over for approval of his performance. Brown ignored him.

In the back of the truck one of the men looked around the side of the canvas top and exclaimed, Jesus Christ. I don't believe it. We're Bloody well 'ere.

Men looked up, relief written on their tired faces, conversation started again.

How long do you think we'll be here?

Depends where you're going, dunnit.

Where you posted to, mate?

'ome. It's back to blighty for me. I done me bit.

Lucky sod. Christ knows where they're gonna send me.

They never tell you, stupid buggers, some big secret I don't think.

Cor. I couldn't 'arf go a cuppa. Wonder if the Naffy's any good in this place?

Stella for me.

Me too.

They were silent as they licked dry lips.

The lorry slowed as it approached the gate. The guard swung the gate open and waved them through. They drove past the guard house and the fire station. Airmen sat on chairs around the fire dusty fire engine waved and called, You'll be sorree. A throwback to the days when they joined the RAF at Padgate.

The convoy stopped outside station headquarters. The corporal in charge jumped out of the rear lorry and walked to the front, shouting, Everyone out. Take your kitbags with you. Line up. Let's 'ave you.

'e's a cocky bastard, one of the men exclaimed.

The men climbed wearily out of the trucks, dragging their kitbags with them and clustered in an untidy group looking around at their new surroundings with curiosity.

Bloody 'ell. Wharra dump, someone voiced their thoughts.

Sergeant McNeil strode out of the orderly room. He could tell at a glance that the new arrivals were tradesmen. The roughest, scruffiest undisciplined desert rats of the Air Force. Give them a broken airplane and they'd work until they dropped. When they weren't working they got drunk, complained incessantly and fought among themselves. He gritted his teeth. This scruffy lot will be trouble, I hope to hell they're posted quickly, he thought. Most of the men left behind when their squadrons moved on were pissed off with everyone and were prepared to show it.

The men sized up this sergeant as he appraised them. They formed an opinion of respect.

Alright men. I know ye don't want to stand around. Pay attention, The Orderly Officer will have a few words with ye. LAC Smithers will give ye your tent numbers. Collect your bedding from the stores and there's a hot meal ready in the cookhouse.

Flying Officer Charles Groomer, the Orderly Officer, stood behind the Orderly room door as Jock spoke to the men. He was not yet twenty years old. He joined the RAF to be a pilot but failed the medical. They had given him a job in administration and he hated it. He wished the war was over and he could go back to the bank where his family connections would assure him a bright future. As Jock repeated the familiar words, he placed his hat squarely on his head and stepped out into the bright sunlight.

Attention, Sergeant McNeil called when he heard the door open.

The C.O. has asked me to welcome you to El Khadar. We know you want your stay in this transit camp to be as short as possible. All postings come from headquarters in Cairo and will be placed on the notice board here at eleven hundred hours each morning. The names of men assigned to guard duty and fatigues will also be posted daily. We know you want to get on your way as quickly as possible, especially you lucky chaps posted home. We'll do everything we can to help. If you have any problems see Sergeant McNeil or myself. Carry on, Sergeant.

Thank ye, sir. Jock saluted and turned to face the men.

Salute the orderly Officer. Dismissed.

The men shambled in a half turn, gave a half hearted salute that could have been a wave of dismissal and started muttering to one another.

Jock McNeil shook his head and followed Groomer back into the orderly room.

This had better not be a bullshit station, one man growled ominously.

The others nodded, grimly.

Smithers stepped forward with a handful of cards.

Alright, line up and I'll give you your tent numbers. He handed cards to the outstretched hands. There's grub in the cookhouse when you've put your gear in the tents, he told them.

The men who had grabbed the first cards, looked at the numbers and called one another.

Which tent you in Chalky?

Nine. What you got, Geordie?

'oo's got nine?

Where are you, Reverend?

Twelve. Hey, I'm not sleeping in the same tent as Poxy!

Gimme your card then.

The men exchanged cards with one another, complaining loudly, then threw their kit bags over their shoulders and trudged off to the tent lines.

Warrant Officer Brown, a sergeant and a two corporals who had arrived in the convoy waited until Smithers had handed out the cards.

Smithers turned to them, Tent lines A,B,C, are reserved for NCO's sir. Tents three, six and seven are empty. You may choose your own tents.

Okay, thanks, Brown replied. He picked up his kitbag and followed the airmen in the direction of the tent lines. The sergeant fell in step beside him.

Hello sir, name's Tom Kelly. Do you mind if I move in with you.

No. Welcome the company. I'm Bill Brown. They shook hands

Loud complaints came from the direction of the men's tents.

Brown smiled, The natives are settling in.

Geordie Stringer and Ernie Albright had found a new mate, Chalky White. The three of them looked into tent nine

Jesus! This bloody tent's 'alf full of sand, Geordie exclaimed.

What a bloody way to run an Air Force, Chalky said.

Let's look in the others.

They went from tent to tent looking for a new home. They found an empty one in row D. Ernie and Chalky dropped their kitbags in the sand and waited for Geordie's decision. Geordie went down the steps and opened the mosquito screened door. Something black and ugly scuttled across the sand covered floor.

The bloody tent is full of bloody scorpions! he shouted.

Urgh! I hate those bloody things.

There must be a nest of 'em in 'ere.

Ernie and Chalky joined him on the steps, peering into the dim interior.

Look, three, four. Ah'm not bloody going in there.

Geordie reached into the tent and picked up a yellowed newspaper with his fingertips, he shook it. Satisfied that there was nothing lurking in it, he said, Ah'll smoke the buggers out. He pulled a brass cartridge cigarette lighter from his pocket and thumbed the flint wheel. The dry brittle paper burst into flames and he threw it at the ugly insects. The flame fluttered up and brushed the jute, tent lining. A small flame flickered across the fabric. The men watched with horror as a delicate flame licked swiftly across the inside of the tent. With a small 'poof', an orange flame burnt a hole through the lining and caressed the canvas exterior.

Get the hell outta here! Geordie shouted.

They scrambled up the steps and stumbled with their kit bags across to the next tent. It was empty they ran down the steps. Geordie glanced back, the tent was billowing smoke. Behind it, in the tent line C he saw the Warrant Officer on the steps of a tent staring at them. Oh Jesus, we're in the shit now, he gasped.

They dumped their kit bags onto the steel bed frames and started laughing. Geordie lit a cigarette, That'll wake the buggers up, he gasped, nervously. He didn't tell the others that the warrant officer had seen them.

There was a commotion outside. They looked out. The tent was now engulfed in flames, the wooden door frame crackling and sending up showers of sparks. Airmen were running from the other tents to see the fire, shouting to one another.

Anyone in there?

No. It was an empty tent.

The fire engine came hurtling towards the tent lines, its horn and bell sounding noisily. It bounced off the roadway heading for tent line D, and ground to a stop, throwing up a cloud of dust, its wheels turning uselessly as they sank in the sand. Two firemen, red faced, jumped down, pulled out a hose and ran to the fire, pointing the brass nozzle at it. Turn on the water! one of them shouted. The other firemen crouched over the control panel at the side of the fire engine were frantically pulling levers and turning taps.

Turn on the water before the fire goes out, the fireman shouted again.

The watching airmen burst into laughter.

Hurry up the fires going out.

Why don't you piss on it?

Piss off yourself, the fireman shouted back, then to the other fireman, I feel a right twit standing here, I'll run back and turn the bloody water on, you hold the nozzle,

Bloody fire's out. The second fireman dropped the nozzle and followed his companion back to the engine. At that moment someone found the right combination of levers. Water under high pressure surged down the canvas pipe. The hose blasted into the air and flailed around spraying water, soaking the watching crowd. The airmen scattered to avoid the thrashing nozzle.

Turn it off, you silly buggers. The fireman ran the last few steps to the fire engine and snapped off the control lever. The tent was now reduced to smouldering ashes. The firemen, red faced, ignoring the ribald comments of the other airmen returned and picked up their hose. The water was turned on and they wet down the last of the smouldering embers.

Who the hell set fire to that tent? Sergeant McNeil and a Service policeman Pete Ecckles same steaming down the tent lines.

Don't know, sarge.

What do you mean you don't know.

I was in me tent, unpacking me things when someone shouted fire, so I came out to 'ave a look.

Me too sarge.

And me.

McNeil glared at the men. They started to shuffle back to their tents.

You'll no get away wi it. I'll find out who it was and ah'll have your guts for garters, he shouted after them.

W.O. Brown andSergeant Kelly, kit bags over their shoulders looked in tent three in line A. Three concrete steps led down to a mosquito netting covered door that opened into a square concrete enclosure like a small, dry, swimming pool. It was relatively cool beneath the double walled tent above. The painted walls were covered with