The Invasion of 1950

by Nuttall, Christopher

  “They want us to get out of the city afterwards,” Skorzeny said calmly. Philby tried to paste a relieved-looking expression on his face. Skorzeny probably thought he was a coward, but that hardly mattered, not now. There might just be a chance to escape completely. “How do you advise that we do that?”

  Philby had looked into the matter before the Germans launched their attack against the defence lines to the north.

  “It’s not going to be easy,” he said, after a moment to collect his thoughts. He’d have to check everything again, and that would risk detection. “I don’t think I can get us papers to get very far out of the city, and if we were to pose as a military unit, we would be unlikely to get away with it for long.”

  “Why not?” Skorzeny smiled and asked. His eyes lit up as he contemplated an important point. “You could be an important minister and we could be your bodyguards.”

  Philby shook his head.

  “The British Army senior ranks are very entwined with the political and aristocratic framework of the country,” he said. How much did Skorzeny actually know? “It’s quite likely that if we posed as a government personage and his escort, whoever we met would know all of them by sight and would smell a rat at once. If we tried to make it to German lines in the north, we would very likely be caught and then thrown into jail.”

  “Executed,” Skorzeny said flatly. He laughed aloud as Philby flinched at the blunt word. “Where else is there? Ireland?”

  “That’s where they would expect us to go,” Philby said. “There are dozens of possible ways to get to Ireland, but all of them would be watched under any circumstances, and of course that would be doubled after Churchill’s death. The only other way out would be to head to France.”

  Skorzeny gave him a sharp look. Did he see the deceit that Philby was planning deep inside his heart?

  “France happens to be on the opposite side of a rather large sea,” he said coldly. “They may claim that I can walk on water, but I would sink if I tried to swim that far, so what do you have in mind?”

  “There are fishing boats all around the south coast of England,” Philby said carefully. “Any one of them could get us to France; hell, there are reports of Frenchmen using the boats to smuggle stuff in and out of Vichy France. The fishermen haven’t even stopped in time of war. They have kept fishing, and they are feeding part of the south coast through their efforts.”

  Skorzeny rolled his eyes.

  “You British couldn’t secure a thing,” he said dryly. Philby, who would have privately agreed, said nothing. “In the Reich, we do not allow such behaviour.”

  “Without their efforts, the south coast would be much more hungry,” Philby said, half-smiling. “Would you want to be the Government that told millions of people to starve rather than allow the fishermen to continue their trade?”

  “Democracy is an alien concept to me,” Skorzeny growled. It was true, Philby knew. The Reich had never been a democratic state and the state before it, the Weimer Republic, had failed spectacularly. They had been meant to vote in a communist government, but instead they had trusted Hitler, a dreadful mistake. “Are you confident that you can get us all out that way?”

  “As long as we move quickly, we could be in France within hours,” Philby promised. “I think that we could make it without any major problems.”

  “Good,” Skorzeny said. “Now, it’s time to start figuring out the answer to the most important question in the world; how can we get a clear shot at Winston Churchill?”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  South of Colchester, England

  Captain Harry Jackson stood to attention, along with the other officers and men, as the Jeep pulled to a halt in front of them. Monty himself, a tall wiry man, stepped out of the vehicle, followed by a smaller portly man who drew all of their attention to his face and the single defiant cigar poking out from between his lips. They'd all seen photos and the occasional film, but meeting Winston Churchill in person was something different; he was every bit as impressive as they said. The line of soldiers snapped out a salute, which both men returned, and then relaxed as Monty ordered them to stand at ease.

  “Thank you, all of you,” Churchill said, his voice ringing out without the use of a loudspeaker. Jackson was silently impressed. Churchill knew how to speak in public. Even the occasional bursts of gunfire to the north were dim in comparison to his voice. “Through your efforts, the British Empire will yet be saved from the Hun, and all of you will be remembered; if England lasts a thousand years, your names will live on as the saviours of the country and the finest fighting men that England has ever produced!”

  Jackson smiled to himself. His father had fought in the Great War and had often spoken bitterly of how returning soldiers had been treated. Perhaps it would be different this time, or maybe their sacrifices would be forgotten just as quickly, but it hardly mattered. For now, all that mattered was throwing the Germans back into the sea. He’d been holding the responsibilities of an officer several levels above him and he knew that Monty was trying frantically to reorganise the army before taking the offensive again.

  Jackson hoped it wouldn’t be too soon. The infantry he was reorganizing had taken a beating at the hands of the Germans. Even now, a week after the battle, units were still being reconstituted and training together, before being moved up to the lines for patrolling.

  The Germans were patrolling much more aggressively than they had before, making life dangerous all along the line. Their infantry remained dug in around Colchester, miles to the north. The fighting might have died down, but it hadn’t stopped altogether; if the Germans suspected that Churchill was at the camp, they might have tried to shell it to get rid of him and a few dozen soldiers…and Monty, of course.

  Monty stepped forward as Churchill finished his speech. “Captain Harry Jackson, step forward,” he said. Jackson took a breath and stepped forward, facing Monty directly. “Captain, you have served the Home Guard and the British Army well, and you have earned a promotion,” Monty said. “For your services, it is my pleasure to promote you to the rank of Colonel in the Home Guard, a title that reflects the responsibilities you have been given and discharged with such success. I expect great things from you in future.”

  He smiled at Jackson as he stepped back into the line and called on the next officer. He hadn’t expected a promotion so quickly – the Home Guard didn’t promote as rapidly as the regular army – but now he had it, he felt a little strange.

  Monty promoted seven more officers, one after the other, before finally stepping back and addressing them all. “I’m proud of you,” he said simply. Jackson felt his heart swelling. “Soon enough, we will advance and take back what’s ours from the Germans and rid our land of their scourge. God save the King!”

  “God save the King,” the soldiers echoed.

  “Dismissed,” Monty said. Jackson saluted and left the field, heading back to the training ground that held his soldiers and several other companies, or were they all under his command now? He had spent most of his time training new units and getting them to work together.

  He made a mental note to pick up his new uniform from the office later. Somehow, the British Army was never short of uniforms, although there were shortages of everything else useful at the moment. He knew from listening to General Barron that they’d fired off too much ammunition and lost too many tanks to take the offensive at once, but replacements were on their way from British factories, Canada and America. Once they arrived and were distributed, he hoped that they could take the offensive and drive the Germans out of the country he loved. Perhaps that would end the war…or perhaps it would go on forever.

  ***

  Alex DeRiemer watched as Churchill spoke to group after group of British soldiers, reassuring them that their sacrifices were not in vain and that their country would remember them after the war, something that DeRiemer suspected was rather uncertain. Churchill himself had been remembered after the last war, as had Monty and a fe
w others, but most of the common soldiers had been quietly forgotten, their lives something unimportant to the vast majority of people. The struggle to survive had drained that much from the country.

  His eyes glanced around the military camp, trying to take in its awesome size. He had never seriously considered the army as a career, not after what had happened to his uncle in the last war, it still surprised him to see just how large the camp actually was. There were thousands of soldiers walking everywhere and carrying massive loads with them; only the quiet surrounding Churchill was noticeable. The camp hummed and throbbed at all hours of the day, with the soldiers desperately preparing for the resumption of the war, something that everyone he’d spoken to expected to come quickly. The Germans might take the offensive again, or maybe they would wait for the British to launch their attack, but either way, both sides knew that the status quo wouldn’t last. If the Germans built up first, they would take the offensive and seek to punch through to London.

  He grimaced. London exerted its baleful influence over the fighting; for one side, it was the target they must protect, for the other, it was the place they must take to win the war. DeRiemer knew that Churchill had contingency plans to continue the fighting after London fell, assuming that it did fall, but the blow to British morale would be staggeringly huge. London had been turned, by the BBC, into a fortress that had resisted the worst the Germans could throw at it; God alone knew what would happen if London fell. Would defeatism take the British population, as it had taken the French in 1940, or would they feel a renewed determination to fight on?

  Their next destination was a tent full of wounded soldiers. DeRiemer kept his face blank, feeling the urge to be sick as he took in some of their wounds, and even Churchill looked subdued. Churchill spoke to them gently, while pretty nurses tended their wounds, and some of them managed a smile for him. One man screamed at him, asking if losing his legs was worth it, and he said nothing. A row of doctors, looking harassed, testified to the grave shortages of medicines and drugs and weren't reassured when Churchill explained that a vast amount of supplies were on their way from America.

  “They keep telling us that,” one doctor said. “We have to do surgery without any drugs, and we’ve even used alcohol to sterilise the wounds.”

  “We’ll have as much as we can sent forward,” Churchill promised. “I shall see to it personally.”

  “There have been too many deaths,” Monty said. “The final offensive will have to be carefully planned to avoid needless death.”

  Churchill said nothing as they reviewed the final formations, his silence noticeable. DeRiemer wondered if something was wrong. Monty addressed the soldier, promoted one of them, and watched Churchill carefully. The Prime Minister’s thoughts were elsewhere. It wasn't until ten minutes later that he finally spoke.

  “An excellent collection of young men,” Churchill said finally. Monty looked pleased at the description; they were his men, one and all, and he had fought hard to make sure they got the supplies and reinforcements they needed. “I would now like you to brief me on the plans to take the offensive.”

  “Of course,” Monty said. “If you would like to follow me…?”

  He led them towards a set of low buildings in the middle of the camp. They were fenced around with barbed wire, as much to keep the ordinary soldiers out as the Germans, although DeRiemer had some problems imagining the wire holding the Germans for long. All they would need would be a set of wire cutters and they’d be sweeping into Monty’s headquarters. A small group of soldiers, wearing clean uniforms and holding older weapons, stood to attention as Monty passed through the gates and led them up to the buildings. He presented his ID card to several sets of guards, who didn’t allow their awe at seeing Churchill in person prevent them from examining his card carefully.

  “We actually had a German impostor claiming to be Colonel Glodstone,” Monty said by way of explanation. He smiled as he remembered. “The man would have made it too – he was quite good – except for the fact that Major Prestonbury knew Glodstone and knew perfectly well that he had been injured during the Battle of Ipswich and shipped up to Scotland for recuperation. We caught him and tried to interrogate him, but the bastard popped a suicide pill and died on us.”

  He shrugged. “We would have shot him anyway, but even so, he could have told us a lot,” he said. “It’s going to be a problem as we insert more new units into the combat zone, Prime Minister; we’re going to have to hold more meetings between senior officers, just to be sure that everyone knows one another.”

  DeRiemer coughed. “And what happens if junior officers obey orders from a man they think is a superior officer?”

  “Good question,” Monty said as he led the way into the main room. “Soldiers are trained to obey orders, regardless of their nature, and we don’t…encourage them to question orders in the middle of a battle. All we can really do is keep an eye out and perhaps insert a few trick questions for any suspected impostors.”

  DeRiemer looked around the room as the handful of staff officers stood to attention. It was bare and gloomy compared to the War Office he remembered from back in London, but Monty’s staff had rigged up electric lights, pouring down illumination on the set of maps in the centre of the room, each one drawn on with pencil marks. A handful of maps showed arrows and unit insignias as part of a planned offensive. The others were clear of anything but possible lines of advance. It all looked impressive, but DeRiemer would have bet good money that the German plans for the attack on London had looked good too, and those plans had come unstuck. Would the same happen to the British plans?

  “We have been working hard to integrate American supplies and volunteer units into our line of battle,” Monty said after a moment. “The Canadian and Australian units insist on remaining under their own command, at least tactically, but we have been able to oblige them to some extent. There have been some problems placing the Americans within our units, but as they came in company-sized units, we have been able to work them in.”

  Churchill held up a hand. “I was under the impression that the Americans would be fighting as an army in their own right,” he said. “Why have you changed that?”

  Monty didn’t blink at the question. DeRiemer suspected that he had expected it. “The American Government originally said nothing about the creation of an American Army within Britain, but apparently they changed their mind once we actually had enough Americans to form an army,” he said. “They requested that we treat the American troops as Commonwealth forces and insert them into our formations, as we did back in North Africa. It hasn’t caused any real problems, as they’re still largely operating under their own officers, but in the long run we may have supply problems. Their weapons are different and need different supplies.”

  Churchill nodded. “And how would you rate them as combat troops?”

  “It’s impossible to say,” Monty admitted. “They’re enthusiastic and determined, and a few of them have experience fighting as volunteers in the Mexican Civil War. Those people ended up mainly with officer and sergeant commissions. The remainder trained well under well-planned conditions, but they have never really been under fire before, and their discipline, while good, is also limited. I don’t think that they will break, but it may take them more time to get used to fighting in such conditions; Mexico was nothing like this war.”

  He shrugged. “I have much more confidence in the Canadians and the Australians,” he said, “even though the latter in particular was very insistent on operating only under an Australian General. They trained according to the same standards as we do, and they use the same weapons, so supplies aren’t going to be so much of a problem. They’re tough, disciplined, and ready to whip the Germans until they cry uncle and surrender.”

  DeRiemer nodded to himself. There had only been a few hundred Germans taken prisoner during the war, mainly low-level soldiers, all of whom had been moved to a detention camp somewhere down in the south. British Intelligence had wanted
to interrogate them, but as the Germans were respecting the rights of British soldiers, Churchill had vetoed any attempt to get information out of the prisoners. They had earned the right to be protected…although the same could not be said of the SS men. Tales of atrocities had spread through the lines, and not a single SS man had been captured. It was all-too-possible that none of them were being allowed to surrender.

  Monty smiled. “We believe that the Germans have been moving in supplies as fast as they can, but with the heavy attacks on their merchantmen now under-way, they have to tie up much of their naval force covering the shipping lanes,” he said. “Rommel must be working all hours trying to get more reinforcements over, but we think that it won’t be less than a fortnight before he’ll feel confident enough to try anything, and quite likely a month before he can go on the offensive again. The constant fighting along the front lines must be draining him as much as it's draining us.”

  His hand traced a line on the map. “It is my intention to attack once the Royal Navy has engaged the German Navy,” he said. “Ideally, the Royal Navy will hurt the Germans enough to prevent them from shipping more supplies into the occupied zone, and we will be able to push them back and break through their defence lines. They have kept a reserve, but we suspect that they don’t have the numbers to hold us back, and once we break through, we will keep moving until we retake Felixstowe and put an end to the invasion.