Should England Fall

by M L Maki

  Spike, “So, you feel your vessels are too important to be hazarded in battle?”

  James, “They’re warships. Of course, they can be hazarded in battle. It just seems a stupid risk.”

  Spike looks at the other men, “And do the rest of you doubt my judgement in this?”

  They avoid eye contact.

  James, “This is not insubordination, ma’am. It’s a question.”

  Spike, “Thank you, Captain Smith for having the balls to ask the question. You other two, if you have the same doubts and remain silent, shame on you. Now to address the concern you have. I’m operating under the assumption that the invasion is common knowledge in the states. Has status of the invasion reached the other side of the pond?”

  James, “It has.”

  “And the four of you are concerned that I’m taking stupid risks with your ships?”

  They all nod and Smith says, “They’re capital ships.”

  “Yes, they are twenty-five plus year old capital ships that are too old and too slow to operate with the carrier battlegroups in the Pacific. Still, they’re a valuable national asset. I do not risk them foolishly. Gentlemen, this is London. The capital of the British Empire and Kingdoms of England, Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland. Should London fall, England falls. Should England fall, Great Britain will fall. Should Britain fall, her empire may well fall with it. There is historical precedence for such things.

  “Loss of this island would, at best, set back the war effort for two years. We would have to liberate Britain before liberating France. Russia would likely stay out of the war, so we would be alone. This would place the entire effort in question. We could lose the war and have a fascist, German owned, Canada on our border.

  “In essence, the war will be decided in the next day or two. Weighted against what is at stake, I will hazard your vessels. I will hazard my whole command. We are all in this together. London must not fall.”

  They are silent for a moment, then, Commodore James says, “Yes, ma’am.”

  Spike smiles, “I’m glad we discussed this in private. Here we are.” She pulls up to the Control Center. “Now, please, join me in the command center so we can go over the maps.”

  GESTAPO HEADQUARTERS, BERLIN

  0900, 5 October, 1942 (0800 GMT)

  Two men drag LT Peter ‘Moses’ Moskowitz from his prison cell. They take him to an interrogation room, handcuff him to a chair, and walk out. He hears the door behind him open and a woman’s voice speaks in German, “Remove his restraints. He will not harm me.”

  As the handcuffs are removed, the woman walks into view, and, in English, says, “Hello, Lieutenant.”

  He studies her for a moment, taking in her fine clothes, her perfect makeup, and well styled hair. She’s smiling, almost flirtatiously, but there’s an edge, a hardness in her eyes. He nods, “Hello.”

  “I have the permission of the Gestapo to see the prisoners. I bring sausage,” and offers him a steaming bratwurst on a warm piece of cloth.

  He salivates and leans forward to take a small bite. It’s been a long time since he’s eaten food this rich, so he must be careful.

  She smiles, “Come now. Please, eat it up quickly. They haven’t given me much time.”

  He stops chewing, “So, it’s drugged. Should have known. What’s your game?”

  Exasperated, “It is not.”

  He studies her eyes, “Well then, you’re thin. We should share it.”

  “I’m quite fine, thank you. I wish to help you.”

  “If you wished to help me, the Gestapo would never have let you in. Still, you’re a pleasant change of pace. What’s your name?”

  “I am Lina. What’s yours?”

  “My name is Peter.”

  “They do hope to learn something, so, what is your rank?”

  “Lieutenant.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “What?”

  “Flying.”

  “It’s exhilarating and sometimes terrifying.”

  “When is it terrifying?”

  “Landing. The night landings at sea, in high seas and storms, that’s terrifying.”

  “You fly the plane?”

  “I operate the equipment behind the pilot.”

  “What kind of equipment?”

  “What’s in the wurst?”

  She chuckles, “A mild sedative and hallucinogenic. It will not cause permanent harm. I’m told some even enjoy it.”

  “There’s radar, pretty long range. I operate the radio.”

  “Do you know Commodore Hunt well?”

  “Commodore now. Wow.”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened to Papa, Um, Commodore Holtz?”

  “I’m told he was shot down and killed. The Luftwaffe has shot down many of your squadron friends.”

  “But, not Spike.”

  “No, not her. Why is she called Spike?”

  “She’s quiet and strong and tough. There’s a cartoon with two dogs, a yippy dog named Chester, who won’t shut up, and a strong, quiet dog named Spike. Her first RIO in training was Chester and wouldn’t shut up. His mouth was always running. We could see it irritated her, and one day, she had enough and told him to shut up. That’s how she got her call sign.”

  “I see. She seems the perfect pilot.”

  “She doesn’t make mistakes in the air.”

  “Do you love her?”

  “In a sense, we all do. She’s that kind of leader.”

  “I mean romantically.”

  “What? Me? No. I don’t have a clue what her type is, but it isn’t me.”

  “Is it because you are a Jew?”

  “That isn’t it, no.”

  “You are aware the meat you just ate is pork, no?”

  Moses chuckles, “I could not care less. I can’t tell you the last time I went to synagogue.”

  “So, your faith is unimportant to you.”

  “Millenia old dietary restrictions are unimportant to me.”

  “You’re from the future, yes?”

  “I am.”

  “Then you know the fate of your people.”

  “I do. Your people murder my people and then pretend to be good Christians. I lost family in the camps.”

  “If you refuse to give me something useful, you will soon join them.”

  He just looks at her, calm, serene, and smiles.

  “So. Very well.” She takes the sausage and walks out.

  Outside, she tells the waiting colonel, “He’ll not break. I recommend you send him to the camps.”

  EAST END OF LUTON FIELD, 27 MILES NORTH OF LONDON

  1034, 5 October, 1942

  LT Gains walks from tank to tank, checking in with his men. They have two replacement tanks. He steps up on one, “Okay, Sergeant, how new are you?”

  “We got off the boat in Portsmouth the day before yesterday. They broke up our brigade to fill in holes.”

  “Right. Do you figure you’re extra brave?”

  “What do you mean, Lieutenant?”

  “Extra brave makes you extra dead. We have to work together if we’re going to get it done and not get ourselves dead.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “When I call formations, say advance or fall back, we do it together. You can’t damage a Tiger from the front. A hull shot on the side or rear will take one out. If we run into Tigers, we call for artillery or A-10s to hit them.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “New York City.”

  “I’m from Jackson Hole, Wyoming. The thing is, Sergeant, we have something in common. We both want to go back those places. Brave is good. Smart is better. As long as you can, keep yourself up out of the hatch. Just button up for artillery or snipers. If you can’t see the enemy, you can’t hit the enemy.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Gains walks to the next new tank and has the same conversation. As he’s walking back to his track, he sees movement at their front. He sprints
to his tank and bounds up into the commander’s hatch. “What’s that down there?”

  Nicholson, his gunner, “They’re Panzer 4s. Three of them. They’re heading south in line crossing our front.”

  “See anything else?”

  “No, sir.”

  Gains, “Sparky, call company. They’re trying to flank us. Request air support.”

  Then four trucks come into view behind the tanks. He checks his radio is tuned to the platoon net, “Fire them up.”

  Sparky, “Company says advance and engage.”

  “Right, send the ‘yes, sir.’” Back on the platoon net, “Four and three, turn north, stay in the trees and get behind them. Take out the rear two tanks, then the trucks. One and two, advance on line. They’re side on to us. They’re about 1200 yards off, so use the trees. Fire at 600 yards. Take the lead tank. Advance.”

  Tanks three and four move north, turn and come at the German line from the west. Tanks one and two roll forward over the crest of the hill. They make it about 200 yards when the Germans see them. The lead German tank swings his gun toward them. Gains, “1, 2, evasive.” The German fires and misses and the Americans keep coming, zig-zagging on 20-degree angles. The Germans stop. Gains, “Nic, fire on the first tank.”

  His gunner fires, but they’re still 800 yards away and moving. Then the German fires and almost hits tank 2. The Sherman rolls through the debris and keeps going.

  Then, to their right, Gains hears the sound of tanks three and four firing. The last Panzer in line is hit with two rounds at its side and its turret pops off, flying into the air, ammo blowing up. Then the three trucks go away, one at a time, as they attempt to drive off the road and into the trees.

  Tanks one and two are still rolling forward. The last two Panzers are stopped and laying down continuous fire. Just as the Sherman’s reach 600 yards, a round hits the track of tank two, and it skids, tearing up the ground. Gains, “Stop, Fire! 2, un-ass your track. Get clear now! Driver! Back track. Go. Go.”

  The men scramble out of 2 and one gets clear when 2 is hit in the turret and the ammo cooks off. Gains, “Nic, target left, AP.”

  “Up.”

  “Away.” The round flies true and hits the first Panzer at the base of the turret.

  Then Gains sees the second Panzer in line hit by a round in the back of its turret. The turret blows off and the ammo explodes. Tanks three and four roll toward them out of the trees. The three remaining Sherman’s fire on the last Panzer.

  The Panzer’s turret tips off and its ammo cooks off, flames shooting out of every hatch and opening.

  It goes silent. Then they hear rounds plinking off their tanks and realize there are German infantry out there from the trucks. Gains and the other two tank commanders unlimber their machine guns and open up. Soon, it is silent again.

  Gains looks around. He’s lost one tank, “Driver, takes us to track 2. We need to check for survivors.”

  On radio, “Check for survivors.”

  They all head for tank two.

  101ST SS PANZER BATTALION, FARM HOUSE, WEST OF OXFORD, UK

  1100, 5 October, 1942

  Meier lays in the farmer’s bed trying to sleep. The noise of his men raping the farmer’s wife in the kitchen wakes him again. He gets up and walks down the stairs. When he gets into the kitchen and the men see him, the room falls silent, except for the crying of the woman. He pulls out his knife, walks up to her, and slits her throat. “Now, go to sleep. We move out tonight.”

  They hear an American attack jet fly over. There vehicles are in the barn or hidden in the trees. There’s nothing to see, and the plane continues on.

  NORTH OF LUTON, UK

  1219, 5 October, 1942

  Patton stands in his tank in the rain. His artillery is exchanging fire with the Germans to the north. There are at least two regiments of German armor reinforced infantry a few miles ahead of him. He gets on the radio, “Where is Rommel’s armor? I don’t think this is the main thrust.”

  His operations officer, “We had a platoon engage east of the air field. Our boys destroyed them.”

  “Have the Canadians to our east heard anything? Have the A-10s take a look.”

  They hear, “4th Corps, Wingnut. The A-10s are having problems with this low ceiling. I’ll ask.”

  “Thank you, Wingnut.”

  EAST RIDING OF YORKSHIRE YEOMANRY, NORTH OF AYLESBURY, NORTHWEST OF LONDON

  1408, 5 October, 1942

  Sergeant David Preacher sits in the command hatch of his Covenanter tank. His company is arrayed to his left; the five remaining tanks from two platoons. To his right is the beginning of the Canadian line, their Ram tanks only moderately superior to his. His gunner says, “Sergeant, as I see it, we’ve two options. Either you can shut the fucking hatch or we can break out the soap. It’s fucking pissing.”

  “It’ll get warm soon enough when the Krauts arrive.”

  “I heard they’re rolling through Luton east of us.”

  They hear the shriek-boom of a Canadian tank getting hit. Preacher, “Hold fire. They’re coming, but I can’t see them.” The rain is coming down so hard, he can only see maybe a mile. One of their own tanks to the left brews up. Then another. He listens to the chatter on the radio, waiting. Then he sees the German tanks materialize out of the mist like grey ghosts. “Okay, boys. We face the Tiger.”

  “Bloody hell, Sergeant, should we just paint a bull’s eye on us?”

  The German Tigers are a third of a mile away when word comes down to charge. On the company net, their commander says, “Their turrets are slow. If we charge, some of us will get behind and hit them in the arse. At the ready! Charge!”

  Preacher orders his tank forward. Once in the clear he looks to either side. About a third of the battalion has not moved. On the net, he hears calls of mechanical problems. “Fucking cowards.” His driver is taking it slow down the slippery berm. A tank to his left brews up. “Floor it, Clyde. Fucking, floor it!” His tank picks up speed, slipping and churning down the slope.

  British tanks are getting hit all up and down the line. Then the Germans start reversing. Preacher’s tank is faster and they pass a Tiger so close he could chat up its commander. Preacher, “Right turret. Right turret. Fire!” Their 40mm auto-cannon round hits the engine deck. The engine explodes and the tank catches on fire. “Right track, elevate, and fire!” Their second round hits the rear turret and its ammo cooks off. The battle is on, with tank rounds and machine gun fire everywhere.

  Preacher, “Bloody hell, it’s working. I thought the duffer was daft. Go! Go! Go! Track left. Turret left, target tank.”

  “Away,” and they hit another Tiger in the rear and it goes up.

  Now, the Krauts are backing up. Preacher sees a few other Covenanters and Rams with him. “Left track. Left track. Go. Turret right. Tank.”

  “Away,” and they hit another engine, disabling the Tiger.

  “Reload. Reload. Target.” A round hits his tank in the rear and throws him forward. Flame leaps up in the rear of his track and he shouts, “Out!” He swipes off his head phones and pushes himself out, falling and burning his hands and arms. He manages to get to his feet and run with his driver. They can hear his men’s screams as they struggle to get out of the burning tank, then, the ammo cooks off. They’re thrown forward by the shock wave, hitting the dirt.

  The driver and hull gunner of the last Tiger they hit walk out into the clear. The only sound is the crackle of the flames as the tanks burn. The four men look at each other. They’re all wearing pistols. Preacher wearily smiles, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. He shakes one out and offers it to the nearest German. The German moves forward and accepts it. The four men are standing amid the carnage, enjoying a smoke, when the British army catches up to them.

  CHAPTER 26

  ‘A’ SABRE SQUADRON, 1ST BATTALION WELSH GUARDS, PUCKERIDGE, UK, 25 MILES NORTH OF LONDON

  1555, 5 October, 1942

  SGT Andrew Seymour lo
oks over his shoulder. The better part of a Panzer Division is chasing them. “Driver, stay on the road. If we get stuck, we’re fucked.”

  “Roger, Sergeant. The rain is splashing on my face and my goggles are all fogged up.”

  “Take them off, Richie. We got to go.” A Tiger fires and the round hits a tank behind them. He hears on the platoon net, “Men, we need to find a place to stop and fight.”

  Another voice on the net, “Sir, there’s nothing for miles. We need to get to the London and make our stand there.”

  “We must blunt this advance so our allies aren’t trapped.”

  “Roger, sir. Looking for big trees.”

  TOKYO BAY NEAR YOKOSUKA, JAPAN

  0500, 6 October, 1942 (2000, 5 October GMT)

  LT Chris Hisakawa raises the one large sail as Grandpa Asahi Koizumi manages the tiller. Chris ties off the halyard and walks aft. In Japanese, Chris asks, “Is the tiller heavy?”

  Asahi, a professor of sociology at the Seisa Dohto University before the time travel event says, “I’m no fisherman, Genzo. Please. You check.”

  Chris takes the tiller, “Not so bad. There’s some growth on the hull, but once it’s off, we’ll be a little faster. Still, thank you so much for your help.” The fishing boat is now clean and tidy. There are curtains in the cabin, a small kitchen and sitting area where grandfather sleeps. Behind a curtain is another bed for Chris and Fukue.

  Asahi, “Thank you, son, for bringing us here.”

  Chris smiles at the old man, “You are so very welcome.”

  Fukue joins them with tea, “Here my grandfather.” She smiles at Chris, “My beloved.”

  Chris happily accepts the tea with his free hand. He says, “My love. My honored grandfather. At this point, I have another secret to share. As I said before, I came from 1990. I, however, did not go through the storm at Chitose. I went through the storm over a thousand miles away in the Pacific.”

  Asahi nods, “And your major was not theater. I know you are much more educated than the fisherman persona you wear.”

  “I am. My major was mechanical engineering at Annapolis.”

  Fukue, sitting in the cockpit, looks up at Chris, “You…you are a U.S. Naval officer. Genzo, how old are you?”

  “I’m twenty-six. I am a U.S. Naval officer. My rank is Lieutenant Junior Grade and I was shot down near here when we attacked Tokyo. I’ve been hiding as Genzo.”