The Invasion of 1950

by Nuttall, Christopher

  “Get the first platoons out there and seal off the port,” he ordered. The port was isolated from Felixstowe itself by the fence, but he doubted that it would take the Germans more than a moment to break it down and attack the town itself. He would have preferred to dig into the town and hold it for as long as possible, but that would give the Germans a chance to reinforce and then expand out and surround the town. He raised his voice for a moment. “I want motorcycle riders, now!”

  Three of them, all younger soldiers, stepped forward. They looked achingly young to Jackson’s eyes. They had joined the Home Guard in lieu of being conscripted into the regular army, or had some problems that had prevented them from serving in the army. He saw fear in their eyes, but also a kind of grim determination; they wouldn’t break and run from the struggle. It was almost a shame that he needed them for something other than fighting.

  “I need the three of you to take your bikes and get to GHQ,” he said, thinking as fast as he could. “Inform the General that we have a German invasion on our hands and I intend to attack them as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, sir,” the senior soldier said. “Are there any other messages?”

  Jackson glanced over towards the glow surrounding the port. “Inform him that we need reinforcements as quickly as possible,” he said. “Take different routes, just in case of trouble; once you have delivered the message, attach yourself to his command and wait for orders. Dismissed!”

  He watched as they ran towards their bikes, recovering them and saluting before they roared off into the distance. Jackson hoped that one of them, at least, would reach the General; without regular army support, the Home Guard might be badly out-gunned He took a final look into the west, seeing the fires still burning, and walked quickly over to the gathered collection of soldiers. He knew most of them personally, others didn’t come from his Company; there was no sign of the Colonel.

  “I am assuming command as the Colonel hasn’t come to the barracks,” he said, remembering that his commanding officer had been intending to inspect the docks. He might be dead already. “Our task is to recover the port before the enemy can ship in reinforcements.”

  The soldiers spread out as they advanced towards the docks, the armoured cars taking point and heading towards the main gate, which were burning. There were no signs of enemy soldiers, but Jackson was sure that that would change quickly; if the Germans behaved as he had been briefed, they would have dug in and prepared to halt any counter-attack. Tanks were of limited use against such a dug-in position, but he would have sold his soul to get a few, and some heavier guns as well. The follow-up units would be bringing their heavy weapons, but he wanted some heavy artillery, maybe even air support.

  The first shots caught him by surprise and he fell to the ground quickly, hoping to avoid being shot as German fire crackled through the night. They were firing single shots, he realised, and they were being depressingly accurate; even in the semi-darkness, they’d hit several of his men. He’d heard of night-vision equipment, but the Germans seemed to have eyes like cats. Was their kit much better than the equipment that the Home Guard had been issued? The Guardsmen returned fire; after a moment, the armoured cars fired as well, hosing down the remains of the gates with machine gun fire.

  The infantry followed, using the armoured cars to shield themselves from enemy fire as the armoured cars ground up to the gates…and then the lead car exploded. Jackson saw men falling backwards under enemy fire as a second mine detonated, and then a third…and then a streak of light destroyed a fourth armoured car. The Germans had antitank rockets, he realised grimly, as his men scattered, aiming frantically at the location of the enemy holding the rocket-launcher. Sparks in the distance and a shout in German, barely audible under the noise of the firing, suggested that someone had killed the German soldier, but there would be hundreds more. How many could the Germans fit into one freighter?

  “Call up the heavy guns,” he ordered, as the first mortar round arced over the gates and fell down near his men, luckily missing them all. The Germans didn’t seem to notice. Their mortar teams kept firing the little shells over the gates, even as his own men threw grenades back into the German positions. Sergeant Wilt mounted a grenade on the end of his rifle and fired it over the gates, hitting something that exploded with disproportionate violence…and then the first German armoured car made its appearance.

  “Shit,” Jackson muttered, as it appeared through the smoke and darkness, launching a flare into the night. For a long moment, everyone was blinking tears out of their eyes and the firing paused before it resumed, stronger than ever. The Germans charged forwards under the cover of the armoured car, crashing into his men and struggling with them for the position as the fighting got really out of control. It was becoming a melee and he knew just how dangerous those could be; Wilt hit the armoured car with a grenade and disabled it, but the Germans didn’t seem to be losing their enthusiasm for the fight.

  “Coming, sir,” Sergeant Boothroyd called, as the roar of a bulldozer appeared and the massive machine pushed into the rubble. Jackson smiled as the sergeant gunned the engine and started to push through the wreckage, before a German soldier came forward and attempted to throw a grenade right into the cab. He was gunned down before he could swing and the grenade exploded moments later, blowing whatever remained of his body to bloody ruin. A second later, a German antitank rocket, designed to burn through armour, struck the bulldozer and sent it up in flames, trapping the sergeant and killing him before he could escape.

  Jackson heard the noise of heavy guns behind him as the follow-up units established their positions and began firing into the docks, but they were effectively firing blind. They’d hit something, but what? The Germans didn’t seem to be alarmed at first, and then they changed their minds…and launched a sweeping counter-attack of their own against the guns. The Home Guard knew about the German proficiency at mounting such attacks on the spur of the moment, but how could they handle it in the semi-darkness? One of the gun crewmen fell and died as a sniper put a bullet through his chest; a second was hit moments after he fired a final shell on his own into the docks. The Germans were still coming towards them…

  “Sir, we have to fall back,” Sergeant Wilt barked, firing towards the Germans with his own rifle. The counter-attack was falling to pieces right in front of Jackson; without tanks and armoured support, taking the docks back was going to be impossible. “We have to fall back and establish a defence line in the town itself or further back!”

  “If we don’t hold them here, we won’t be able to hold them later,” Jackson shouted back, just before the sergeant tackled him and a burst of German machine gun fire shot through where his head had been a second before. “We can’t retreat!”

  “Sir, we don’t have a choice,” Wilt said. Jackson could hear the bitterness in his tone at the thought of retreat, but there was no other choice and then an aircraft swooped overhead, dumping an entire series of flaming bombs on the Home Guard position. Panic started to settle in onto the soldiers; some fled at once, others slipped back while still firing. “Sir…”

  Jackson blew a whistle and watched as his men fell back, those who had held the line. In front of them, German infantrymen and a handful of other armoured cars were slowly pushing forward, while mortar fire poured down on the retreating British. The hastily organised counter-attack had failed completely.

  ***

  Thank God for that, Oberst Frank-Michael Baeck thought, as the rate of British fire slacked and began to fade. The British didn’t know– couldn’t know– but they’d come very close to hitting the Hans Bader itself and taking out the remaining supplies on the ship. They’d almost punched through the defence line as well; even now, there were still bursts of firing as individual British soldiers or platoons launched attacks against the fence, testing the defences. They’d have to expand now, just to keep the British on the run, but they didn’t have the manpower, not yet.

  He looked into the gloom and smile
d as a massive dark freighter came in to dock. They’d had words with the prisoners, those who worked on the docks, and convinced them to help the unloading effort, or else they would simply be sent back to slavery in Europe. They would have to be watched carefully, just in case one of them had decided to try to sabotage the unloading process, but it wouldn’t be easy to do that in any meaningful way. The handful of remaining prisoners had been bound and put out of the way on the Hans Bader; for them, at least, the war was over.

  “I have the first strike reports from the parachutists,” the communications officer said. He’d been trying desperately to make some overall sense out of the confused fighting and the babbling on the radio that characterised the first moments of any invasion. Baeck looked over at him and checked his watch; it had been just over an hour since the fighting had begun, but it wasn't until now that he felt even part-way secure from attack. “They’re claiming to have overrun their main targets and have secured their positions for observation purposes.”

  “Good,” Baeck said, although it wasn't really his concern. His job now was to complete the unloading of the freighters, unload the main convoy when it arrived, and secure as much control over the local area as possible. “Have the armoured cars and their supporting units move to controlling positions around the civilian populations and have all of the soldiers warned to make sure that any civilians they encounter are warned to remain home and stay off the streets.”

  “Yes, sir,” the officer said. Baeck glanced down at the chart he’d been updating; resistance in most places had been light, disorganised, although one parachute unit that had been intended to land on an army base hadn’t reported back. That suggested that they’d been wiped out or captured by angry British soldiers; the odds were that they’d been killed. “Field Marshal Rommel is asking for an update; his unit should be unloading within the next two hours.”

  Baeck stepped back as the first unit of Panzers were driven out of the new freighter and down to the gates, their commanders shouting orders at each other as they prepared to expand the area of German control. The plan called for over ten divisions to be supplied in the end, but that would take weeks; they couldn’t afford to waste too much of their fire-power in the early days of the invasion. The British would organise an armoured counter-attack of their own very soon.

  “Inform the Field Marshal that we have secured the first objectives, beaten off a counter attack, and are currently preparing to seize the second set of objectives,” Baeck said shortly. The noise of firing burst up again in the distance, and then faded as one of the Home Guard units was defeated. How long would it be before the British mounted a second counter-attack?

  “Jawohl, Herr Oberst,” the officer said. Baeck nodded and headed out to inspect the unloading operations, watching as a line of field guns was unloaded and rapidly moved towards their position in the defence line; they’d be needed if the British brought up some of their heavy tanks. The Panzerfausts might not be effective against the latest tanks in the British arsenal.

  Another group of tanks was carefully moved out as supervising crewmen barked orders, watching as the press-ganged British workers assisted them to unload. They looked shocked and terrified, a look that Baeck remembered from his service in the remains of Russia; they had never really expected it to happen to them. They didn’t know it, but they were luckier than the Russians; they weren’t going to be handed over to Goring’s men to serve as slave labourers or sent to one of the concentration camps for being the wrong religion.

  Baeck checked the remaining defence posts quickly and then watched as German forces began flowing down into the city itself, taking as much territory as possible before the British could counter-attack The Home Guard had either retreated from the city or some of its members had tried to blend in with the civilian population; they would have to be found quickly before they could organise trouble. It wouldn’t matter, in the long run, but in the short run it could prove disastrous.

  One misstep now and the entire invasion plan might fall apart.

  Chapter Twelve

  London, England

  Alex DeRiemer spent the day collecting the latest information on the German movements and trying to foresee a pattern in their activities before deciding that the Germans didn’t seem to be planning a leap across the Channel that evening. Their operational tempo had increased sharply over the past few days with observers in Sweden reporting that the German air force had been practising precision bombing. The German navy was preparing for sea. The activity had dropped off sharply over the last couple of weeks. DeRiemer had been starting to wonder, despite himself, if it had all been a drill. His boss had been less sanguine.

  “Adolph is a crafty bastard,” he’d said when DeRiemer had broached the subject with him. “He may be merely rattling the sabre to make us flinch, or he may have evil intentions, but there’s a reason behind his madness.”

  DeRiemer hadn’t argued with that point, but what was the reason? He’d warned the Government that he was sure that the Germans were planning an invasion of England, but as the German activity started to subside, he’d researched their other sources in hopes of finding out why, only to draw a blank. MI6 had agents within Germany, but the Germans had tightened up their security remarkably and anyone who might have been in a position to know what was coming wouldn’t be interested in trading secrets with the British. The members of Hitler’s inner circle knew what side their bread was buttered on; they wouldn’t dare to gamble on a British victory in an unspecified future war when Hitler’s forces were so strong. It would have earned them a short and unpleasant stay with the SS.

  Shaking his head, he packed up and left the office. He turned the papers in to the secure office as he passed it and then headed down the stairs. He nodded to Kim Philby as they met. Philby had always struck DeRiemer as a sort of unstable character, but there was no denying his determination to work against the Germans; his hatred for the Nazis was almost unprofessional, more suited to SOE than the more dispassionate MI6. Philby looked preoccupied as DeRiemer passed him and headed out onto the streets of London, looking around as he walked towards his flat. Like other unmarried MI6 officers, DeRiemer had a small flat only a five minute walk away from the building, a legacy from the times when they could be expected to report for duty at any moment.

  The city itself seemed so…peaceful and tranquil under his gaze; the richer folks of London hadn’t hesitated to take advantage of the end of the war by investing in more entertainment for themselves. They weren’t interested in supporting the Atlee Government at all. They’d spent most of the last war in only slightly reduced circumstances, while the brunt of the suffering had been borne by the poor. Thousands of young men had emigrated from Britain under the economic depression, heading away to South Africa, Australia and America, while the motherland suffered because of their absence. Only conscription kept thousands of men off the dole…and DeRiemer suspected that it wouldn’t be long before the program came to an end. It simply cost too much.

  He let himself into his flat, nodding to the landlady as he passed, and smiled at her suspicious gaze. MI6 had hired, he suspected, the ugliest woman in the world…and the most suspicious. One of his colleagues had brought a girl home and had ended up being hauled up in front of his supervisor for a dressing down. It was like living in the remains of Soviet Russia; DeRiemer had visited Beria’s land for a month, and it had been drab and depressing. They’d even attempted to recruit him as a spy.

  There was little time to think. He found the bed, clambered into it, and turned out the lamp. It seemed only moments later when the alarm shrilled at him. He reached out for it, pushed at it several times without silencing it, before realising that it was actually the telephone ringing. He pulled himself out of bed again, glancing down at his watch; had he really only had an hour of sleep?”

  “DeRiemer,” he said as he picked up the telephone. The line was awful. It hissed and cracked at him as he tried to listen to what the man was saying. “Si
r, I can’t hear you…”

  The line cleared suddenly. “Get over to the War Office at once,” Sir Stewart said. The Director of MI6 sounded as if he was dreadfully worried.

  It’s started, DeRiemer thought as the telephone went dead. He hit the radio and cursed as all he heard was static, but then he heard, in the distance, the noise of air raid sirens. The rich party-goers out there wouldn’t have the slightest idea what to do; the wardens would probably have to cope with their panic as well as fires caused by German bombings. He dressed quickly, fled down the stairs, and opened the door with his key, leaving it open behind him. He doubted, somehow, that the landlady’s bomb shelter would be any real use – that design was more hazardous to the occupants than it was to the Germans, with the added disadvantage of looking like a pillbox and therefore a legitimate military target – but everyone would want to pile in and see if they could survive there until morning.

  The skies were illuminated by the glow of searchlights, scanning the skies for enemy aircraft, but he saw no sign of any in the bright glare. A handful of anti-aircraft guns sounded out in the distance, but he couldn’t hear any enemy aircraft. The Germans might have risked the use of gliders, but surely they wouldn’t send them over to London, would they? They’d have to be out of their minds. He was drawn back to reality by an armed soldier blocking the way into the War Office, demanding identification.