Should England Fall

by M L Maki

  VF-42, 50 MILES WEST OF THE FLEET

  LT Donald Atwood is flying blindly into the night at 25,000 feet in his F4F-3 Wildcat. Night operations are new to him. He looks at the radar screen above the compass. He sees a dot, then several dots. He turns right and left to confirm the contacts. On radio, “Yorktown, Big Bird 121, raid warning. A dozen aircraft at 028.”

  “Roger, Big Bird. Weapons free.”

  He descends and loses them. When he climbs, the signals strengthen. “Yorktown, Big Bird 121. They’re higher than me. Climbing to intercept.”

  “Roger, Big Bird 121, Yorktown. All fighters, vector on raid 1.”

  On radio, “Big Bird, Columbia. Raid is at 32000 feet and 600 knots. Climb to engage.”

  Atwood has his engine firewalled in a steep climb. At 31,000 feet he starts to level off and pick up some speed. The incoming Japanese jets are specks occluding the stars. He picks one and climbs again, his Pratt & Whitney R-1830-76 double-row radial engine screaming for all it’s worth in the thin air. He takes a long lead and fires all four 50 caliber machine guns in a long burst. His tracers arc through the darkness and hit one of the jets. It catches on fire, blinding him for a moment, but he turns and seeks another target. In a moment, the sky is dark again as the Japanese jet spirals to the ocean. “Yorktown, Big Bird 121, splash one.”

  “Big Bird, Yorktown. Roger.”

  “Big Bird, Columbia. Dive to clear range.”

  “Columbia, Big Bird diving.”

  COMBAT, USS COLUMBIA

  Captain Heard, “Missile Mount 2, commence firing.”

  “Open fire, aye, sir.” The fire circuit is depressed and two SM-1ER missiles streak off their rails. “Missiles away.”

  The missile crews in the Mount 2, Mark-10 launcher place two more missiles and launch, then cycle up two more. The second volley is fired before the first one hits. Two Japanese bombers are blotted from the sky, then two more.

  WASHI BOMBER FORMATION APPROACHING FLEET

  Captain Hata, “Asahi, do you have good lock?”

  “Affirm, Captain.”

  “The warheads are tracking?” He sees two more jets explode.

  “Affirm, Captain.”

  “Five miles, releasing ordinance.” The bomber lurches up as the four 1000-pound guided bombs are released. “Coming about.”

  Asahi, “Missile warning!”

  “Calm, Asahi.” Hata pickles off chaff and makes a violent turn and dive. The missile explodes in the chaff.

  USS YORKTOWN

  Captain Elliott Buckmaster, on the bridge, looks out to the bow as aircraft continue to take off. All his fighters are airborne and the rest of his aircraft are launching as quickly as possible. He looks to the north where he can see the Columbia’s missiles firing in rapidly ascending tongues of flame. Above him he sees the explosions as most of the missiles hit.

  CDR Dixie Kiefer, his XO, joins him, “Shouldn’t you be in combat, sir?”

  “The boys know what to do, and we’ve done all we can.”

  Then they hear, “The attacking force is turning back. Vampire! Vampire! Missiles inbound.”

  All the ships of the battlegroup, even those damaged at Savo Island, fire a wall of flak. Buckmaster picks up the 1MC, “All hands, brace, brace, brace!” He grabs the bridge coaming, bends his knees, and opens his mouth.

  The Japanese guided bombs cannot be seen. Six Japanese bombers survived and were able to drop twenty-four bombs. Most were directed at the Yorktown. Eight fail to track, tumbling out of the sky. Five were hit by the Columbia and one by the combined fire of the other ships. Four hit the Yorktown and two hit the already damaged North Carolina. The rest fall into the sea.

  Buckmaster gets up, his ears ringing, goes out onto the bridge wing and looks over his flight deck. It’s an inferno, burning from the island forward. He picks up the 1MC, “Damage control parties out.” The system is dead. He sees his XO struggling to his feet, his right shoulder dislocated. “You need to get to medical!”

  “I’m fine, sir.”

  Buckmaster looks back over the deck. “Turn us around. Steam north backwards, so we can keep the flames on the bow.”

  “Yes, sir.” The XO leaves the bridge wing, and staggers as the ship shakes with secondary explosions.

  Then, Buckmaster sees the number two turret on the North Carolina explode. The shock wave hits him in the chest, “My God.”

  Admiral Fletcher walks out, “How are we, Captain?”

  “We’re fighting, sir. We’ll steam astern to keep the flames forward.”

  “Very good. Our aircraft?”

  “Our stern is clear, sir. When we need to land them, we can.”

  Fletcher picks up a radio, “Columbia, Task Force 17, what is the status of your missiles?”

  Captain heard replies, “Sir, twenty standard left.”

  “Columbia, we’ll send the Roanoke to unrep standard.”

  “Roger, sir. Standing by. Sir, are our aircraft loaded with ordinance?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Recommend we hit the bombers as they land.”

  “Roger, Columbia.”

  CHAPTER 19

  ME-262 DEPARTING OCCUPIED RAF OUSTON

  1048, 30 September, 1942

  Major Gunter barely clears the trees at the end of the field. He keeps his speed down so his squadron can catch up to him. Each of the ten ‘262s carries two bombs and two missiles. Before long, they go feet wet continuing east until they can’t see the English coast. Gunter smiles as his formation turns south.

  IN MARSHAL, USS YORKTOWN

  2253, 30 September, 1942 (1153, 30 September GMT)

  LT Donald Atwood flies his F4F-3 Wildcat down the port side of the Yorktown at 1000 feet. The ship’s stern is up wind, smoke and fire rising hundreds of feet into the sky. Three destroyers are with the sinking North Carolina. Then, on the Yorktown, the bow explodes with a visible shockwave. Atwood turns his plane to take the shockwave on his nose. He still loses lift on the left side, but brings it his aircraft back under control. Then, he looks down. They Yorktown has slowed and the flames are spreading. A gust of wind clears the smoke and he sees fire in the forward hangar. He makes the turn and flies up the stricken ship’s starboard side. He can see that it’s settling deeper in the water. He hears on his radio, “All units, be advised. Yorktown is foundering. Ditch near the destroyers for pick-up.”

  ST. JOHN’S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE, UK

  1344, 30 September, 1942

  Sergeant Johnny Rodriguez runs at the front of his little unit. He had twelve men, but after an ambush, he’s down to eight, and the Germans are everywhere. They run through ancient buildings with amazing stone architecture, then over the Bridge of Sighs. They make a corner and see a German carrying a painting. Johnny butt strokes him and keeps running. Jimmy grabs the painting, finds a closet, and tosses it in.

  Johnny looks out a window, “Oh fuck.” Under the trees, about a hundred yards away to the east sit three Tiger tanks and two half-tracks, and one of the half-tracks has a missile launcher. Beside him, holding his shoulder and heaving for breath, Wingnut looks over the situation, “No time to call. Keep going.”

  “They make it to the northwest corner and look out. It’s clear, so they slowly exit, looking for cover. They run for a small brook with brush on its banks and work their way south. At times they’re forced to lay down and squirm along in the west grass.

  Wingnut gets under a large bush and turns on his radio, “Any Hog, Wingnut.” Static. “Any A-10, Wingnut.” Static. “Wingnut transmitting in the blind. We have multiple German armor blocking our retreat east of St. John’s College in Cambridge,” and gives the map coordinates.

  He hears something unintelligible in the static and turns off the radio, putting it away. They make it about fifty feet when they hear the panicked sobs of a woman. Peeking between branches, Tommy sees two Germans dragging a young woman by her hair. One German says something and the SS walk straight toward him.

  Johnny and Wingn
ut exchange a long look. They draw their knives. Jimmy Thatcher draws his saber and Tommy motions for him to put it away. The Germans push through the branches right into their knives.

  Wingnut thrusts his knife up under the man’s ribs and into his heart. The German gurgles and collapses. Johnny slits the other man’s throat with a backhand slash, cutting the jugular and carotid, showering himself in blood. Jimmy grabs the girl, covering her mouth with his hand. As she sees her captors die, she starts to shake.

  Silently, they ease their way south along the brook. Johnny bends and rinses his hands and knife in the cold water.

  ELECTRONICS PRODUCTION PLANT 6, NORTH OF KENNEWICK, WASHINGTON

  0612, 30 September, 1942 (1412 GMT)

  Captain Scott Richardson studies the control screen on a new fabrication unit. He now has more than two thousand fabrication units in the six plants. This one is a new design by Raytheon. The tolerances are supposed to be tighter, but as they set up the machine, it’s obvious they’re not in spec. Richardson pull out a note pad and starts writing calculations. “Try adjusting the laser six ten thousandths inward. Call me if it doesn’t get better.”

  The Raytheon engineer, “Sir, I’m terribly sorry for this.”

  Scott wearily smiles, “Don’t be. This is new technology. It will take time to perfect.” Beyond the engineer he sees a lieutenant junior grade waiting. “Can I help you, Lieutenant?”

  “Lieutenant Maki, sir,” and hands Scott a letter. It’s addressed to him from Admiral Klindt.

  Captain Richardson,

  LTJG Maki is designing a tank for me. He’s seeking electronics for the tank. Tank electronics is a tier 2 priority.

  Admiral Klindt

  Scott shakes his head and looks up, “What is your background, Lieutenant?”

  “Four months ago, I was an MM2 nuke on the Long Beach. I solved a problem with the 6-inch triple mounts they’re installing on the Long Beach and Admiral Klindt assigned this tank job to me. I’m massively in over my head and doing the best I can.”

  “Your honest, good. Ten months ago, I was a senior chief. What do you need?”

  “I need a laser range finder and I want an integrated ballistic computer. Computer based engine monitoring would be nice, too.”

  “Your first request is easy. I’m building something similar for block 2 of the A-10 and the F/A-14B. The A-10 ballistic computer may work as well, with some software and input modifications.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Tell me, why is the army letting a sailor design tanks?”

  “They aren’t. I’m designing for the Marines.”

  “And what have the Marines said?”

  Maki grins, “Yes, sir, admiral, sir. You’ve met Admiral Klindt, right?”

  Scott laughs, “I used to work for him on the Vinson and he’s here a lot.” He pulls the page of calculations out of his notebook and hands it to the Raytheon engineer, “Let me know if the adjustments work. Take your time and be meticulous. Remember, slow is smooth, and smooth is fast.” He motions for Maki to follow him, “So, tell me about this tank.”

  “The Marines insist on gasoline, so the engine will be the Rolls Royce Merlin. Packard has a license to build them. The admiral scared up a 105mm gun with fixed ammunition. The suspension will be a horizontal volute suspension because they’re tough and reliable, and don’t get hung up in terrain.”

  “Not torsion bars?”

  “The most critical component of a torsion suspension is the hardest to build. If a torsion bar fails, you’re done until it can be dragged back to the shop. If the volute spring fails, you jack the wheels down and keep running, just slower.”

  “What are the most critical parts of this volute suspension?”

  “The pins and arms and they’re easy to make and over engineer.”

  “I think I’ve heard of the Merlin. It’s an aircraft engine, right?”

  “Yeah, the torque and horse power ratings are way better than any tank engine made today, and with all the jets we’re building, aircraft don’t need them.”

  “You have thought this through, so what has you worried?”

  “It has to be made so a fourth-grader can fix it while he’s being shot at.”

  “A fourth-grader?”

  “Sorry, a smart Marine.”

  ST. JOHN’S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE, UK

  At a hundred yards from the bodies, Johnny’s unit is moving carefully and fast. Then they hear shouting from behind them. Tommy stops and peeks through the branches and sees a German running toward the armor. There are Germans everywhere and they’re at the end of their cover. There’s ten yards of road to cross in the open. A German soldier shouts, and Johnny turns and shoots his BAR from the hip. He gets a few rounds off, and they all run across the road.

  A tank fires behind them, the round falling far forward. A machine gun opens up, shredding the bushes behind them and the trees and houses in front of them. Then they hear it, the brrrrt of an A-10. Wingnut yells, “Yes!” They burst through a line of trees and find two German trucks parked, one driver smoking and the other pissing on a tire.

  Johnny fires two rounds and Jimmy takes a shot, hitting the smoker. They run for the trucks. One is a fuel tanker under a fabric cover and the other holds supplies. They board the supply truck and gun it east, then turn south at the cross street. Wingnut puts a bag of flour against the front wall to support his back and eases down. He looks over his team, “Jimmy, you can let go of her hand, now.”

  101ST, SS BATTALION, QUEENS COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE, UK

  1751, 30 September, 1942

  Meier climbs out of his third tank. Four German soldiers are walking with a prisoner. In German, he asks, “Who do you have?”

  The sergeant salutes, “I don’t know, Herr Major. What do we do with him, sir?”

  “We will see.” He studies the man. The prisoner is wearing a British flight suit. In English, he says, “Cooperate and you will not be harmed.”

  “You’re SS?”

  “What unit do you fly for?”

  “My name is Guiles Montgomery. I’m a member of the Royal Air Force.”

  “What aircraft do you fly?”

  “A dirigible.”

  Meier pull his Luger and puts a round in the center of Montgomery’s forehead. “What you do with prisoners is, you kill them.”

  GERMAN 4TH CORPS HEADQUARTERS, CAMBRIDGE, UK

  2016, 30 September, 1942

  Rommel is livid, “General, Colonel, get control of your men. This ancient city is meaningless to our mission.”

  The SS General, “Herr Field Marshal, the men have fought hard. Some recreation for an hour or two is nothing.”

  “It is you who do not understand, General. Your hour or two may be all the British need to counterattack. It may be the difference between success and failure. Your target is London. We must get to London. Anything less is meaningless.”

  ME-262 DEPARTING OCCUPIED RAF OUSTON

  0415, 1 October, 1942

  Major Gunter barely clears the trees at the end of the field. He keeps his speed down so his squadron can catch up to him. Each of the ten ‘262s carries two bombs and two missiles. Before long, they go feet wet continuing east until they can’t see the English coast. Gunter smiles as his formation turns south.

  BARTON, UK, SOUTHWEST OF CAMBRIDGE

  0545, 1 October, 1942

  Meier’s SS soldiers run from house to house, rounding up civilians at gunpoint. They push people out into the street; old men and women, young girls and boys, and women with small children. Retired Sergeant Mason, too old for regular service, stands at the end of the line. When Meier approaches, Cox asks, in bad German, “What is this? These people are not soldiers!”

  Sensing the fear, a six-month-old baby starts crying. Her mother holding her close, shushes her.

  The German colonel smiles and orders his men to form a line. Then, he speaks, “All of you. Turn around.” The SS soldiers herding them into place, step away.

 
Sergeant Mason, “Go to hell.”

  His twelve-year-old grandson, Peter, standing with his mother, steps in front of his little sister, and says, “Yeah. Bugger off.”

  Meier reddens, “We will teach your countrymen not to resist us. READY!”

  Mason begins singing, “God save our gracious King. Long live our noble King…” First one, then another voice, joins in.

  “AIM!”

  Mason, Peter, and Reggie, the school bully, charge the Germans, as the villagers sing, “God save our King. Send him victories…”

  “FIRE!”

  Mason reaches Meier and grabs his throat as the soldiers fire. A SS soldier butt strokes him down. One hundred and twenty-four civilians lay dead, the baby still held tightly in her mother’s arms.

  GABLE END OF A NEARBY HOUSE, BARTON, UK

  Chris Oliverson, MI-5, on reconnaissance, reaches the end of his roll of film. He lowers himself to the floor of the unfinished attic and sobs, clutching his camera to his chest. He takes a deep breath and watches as the Germans leave, heading south. He reloads his camera, and when there are no more Germans in sight, he makes his way to the killing field. He checks each one. They are all dead.

  Struggling to see through tears, he feels a white-hot rage building inside him. He takes a picture of each face and checks for ID. When he’s finished with his grisly job, he runs for his hidden motorcycle. He was there to record the passage of the Germans for his commander. This was not supposed to happen. No one had envisioned this on English soil. He kicks his bike to life, “London needs to see this.”

  CONTROL, RAF KENLEY

  0607, 1 October, 1942

  Spike signs requisitions without really looking at them, listening to the radio chatter. Andrews, her chief of staff, “Commodore, you aren’t even reading them.”

  She looks up, making eye contact, “Colonel, I trust your judgement. Trust is binary. Either you are trusted fully, or not at all. How are the SAM defenses coming?”

  “Master Chief Bond is setting them up. The Air Corps is manning them and we have Brits learning at their side. When there’s enough in place, the coverage will be expanded to include all of London and Portsmouth.”