A Call To Arms

The landscape was barren and empty, save for a few small desert plants struggling to survive,

assorted rock formations, and brown mountains far away on the horizon. Anything visible at

distance was seen through the wavy distortion imposed by the haze of heat, becoming intense

even at this early hour. A grinding, insistent noise just on the edge of the audible range increased

in volume until it resolved into the sound of a heavy engine and persistent clanking. A British

Matilda Mark II tank, painted the color of sand, roared forward, menacing all who dared to stray

into its path. The tank’s roar was accentuated by the loud whine of an incoming shell, and then a

huge explosion that threw dust and rocks high into the air. The sounds of heavy combat

multiplied and increased in intensity as the tank neared its desired firing position.

Captain Walter Stiles, Western Desert Force, British Army, was directing the troops of the

Second Rifle Company and its assigned armored support. Walter Stiles would sometimes think

of his twin, Wallace, at the oddest possible times. Now, pressing his men forward as the

vanguard of the British attack, he marveled once again at how he and Wallace were so close, so

similar in interests and activities, all the way down to the girls they pursued. As Walter Stiles

gathered his determination to face the Italian garrison at Fort Capuzzo, in Italy’s Libyan colony

far from their London home, he thought Wallace to be the more courageous of the two. When

the time came for military service, Walter enlisted in the British Army, just as his father had, and

his father before him––as did so many Stiles fathers who went before, as far as Walter cared to

count.

It was Wallace, though, who defied tradition to join the Royal Navy. Service in either force

had its dangers, but for the Stiles brothers, the Navy held a more personal risk. Father adored the

Army, but was forced to leave the military prematurely for the British Foreign Service by a

Pashtun bullet in his hip. Even with his father hobbled, Walter Stiles would gladly take on ten

times the number of battle-hardened Italians, who even now tried to find the range of his

advancing unit, over the wrath of Lieutenant Colonel Montgomery Rynearson Stiles, Retired.

Mother passed years earlier, but father just died in ’39. Father’s death came on the heels of the

news that Germany, and then Russia, invaded Poland and scant weeks before the two brothers

were sent on their respective current deployments. The visit on leave with their father in London

before their deployments would be the last time father, Wallace, and Walter would all be

together. The brothers joked about how their mother, who could trace her lineage to the

Habsburgs, taught each of her boys to speak German like a Berliner. Now, Walter would be in

Egypt keeping an eye on the Italians across the border, while Wallace would be on the high seas

with only his British shipmates to speak with for weeks on end. Captain Stiles’s reverie was

suddenly broken by the whine of another incoming round.

“Take cover! Take cover!” Stiles shouted this obligatory warning to his men, though he was

confident they needed no encouragement under the circumstances. Everyone knew going in that

attacking a fortified position was difficult under the best of circumstances. The British launched

an eastern assault in the early hours putting the bright, climbing desert sun behind them.

However, what slope there was to the terrain favored the Italians and good cover was scarce

from any angle. Speed was paramount, but had to be balanced against risk. Stiles––indeed, the

entire force––had few troops to spare. He briefed his men against taking foolish chances and to

save ammunition as much as possible until they could close quarters with the enemy. The Brits

were badly outnumbered, but they also had the stout Matilda Mark IIs. Small, but fast and tough,

the scrappy tanks could throw a punch at least as well as they could take one. The Italian

mechanized armor, by contrast, had all the shell-stopping power of a tin of milk.

Stiles’s mind worked quickly, finding the optimum path to direct the tanks, and then his

infantry. Whoever said go into battle with a plan and then abandon it, bloody well knew his

onions, Stiles thought. A huge explosion to Stiles’s left sent him crouching and scrambling for

cover. He spotted a crater left by one of the shells, just deep enough for shelter and to give him a

chance to gather his wits. Stiles dove in, finding himself next to one of the company’s radiomen,

Corporal Morrison, who dove in a split second later. He liked Morrison and had his eye on him

for sergeant, if they came out of this alive. Another shell landed nearby, showering Stiles and

Morrison with rocks and sand.

“Blimey!” shouted Morrison, adding, “Hope the damn radio’s alright.”

Stiles cautiously peered over the crater rim, his trusty Webley service revolver in hand, and

then shouted his next order to Morrison over the new sound of staccato machine gun fire.

Mercifully, the shots were falling short of their position, so far.

“Morrison, get Captain Carruthers on the radio. They’re trying to flank us. We need tank

support or we’ll be cut off!”

“Yassah!” Morrison quickly slipped out of the radio’s harness and tried to raise the tank group’s

commander.