He frowned. They didn’t have long to inflict major damage on the German ships.
“I want all ships to give chase,” he said grimly. The Germans would probably be vectoring in U-boats and other unpleasant surprises. They were supposed to have the entire area heavily mined. He didn’t want to risk his ships if he could avoid it. “Continue firing until the Germans break contact.”
The battleship shuddered again as the German ships fled and the British ships moved in pursuit. Fraser watched as the Germans slowly opened the range. A stern chase was always a long one, and judging from the way the Germans were moving, it was also going to be one that the British would lose. Shells were splashing down around the German ships, sometimes finding a target, but mainly striking the water. The Germans had taken terrible losses, but they still had four battleships and they would remain a threat.
It tore at him to issue the order, but he knew his duty. “Signal all ships. Break contact and fall into line with the flagship to proceed to Scapa Flow.”
“Aye, sir,” the radioman said. The battleship was smoking in several places, but as the reports came it, it became clear that the King George V hadn’t been seriously damaged. The same couldn’t be said for several other ships; the Germans had hammered them badly. Who knew what would have happened if the Germans had sought mutual immolation rather than trying to break contact?
The radioman looked up at him. “The fleet has acknowledged. They have damage reports ready.”
“Later,” Fraser acknowledged wearily. There was one final duty to be done before he could rest. “Send a signal to London…”
Fraser knew just what to say. There would be time for a full report later, one that counted the cost and the gains of the engagement, but that could wait. Churchill had said that London needed good news, and that was what Fraser intended to give them. He would give them the best news possible.
He stroked his beard as he spoke. “Tell them…that we have met the enemy, and he is ours.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
Felixstowe, England
“How bad is it?”
Kapitän zur See Christian Wulff winced at Rommel’s tone. He’d found himself without a role after the Hans Bader had been damaged by British shellfire and he had ended up as the Kreigsmarine's liaison officer to Rommel’s headquarters, on the Felixstowe docks.
Oberst Frank-Michael Baeck would have liked to have supported his friend, but his own mind was reeling. There had to have been a mistake somewhere, surely?
“The British took a beating, but for the moment…to all intents and purposes, the Kriegsmarine no longer exists as a fighting force,” Wulff admitted. “The core of the fleet was savaged by the British, who sank all of the carriers and most of the battleships. The remainder are seriously damaged. The British destroyers and torpedo boats proceeded down the Channel and attacked one of the supply convoys in broad daylight, while their submarines hit other convoys that sailed with reduced escorts because of the demands of the battle-fleet The net result…”
He broke off and controlled his voice with an effort.
“The net result is that we are unable to guarantee the safety of our convoys,” he said. “Until we manage to regain control over the Channel, the British are effectively able to block us from reinforcing the lodgement here and sink anything we send over to resupply you.”
Rommel’s face darkened and replied coldly, “I see. It wouldn’t be the first time that the Kriegsmarine has failed to live up to its promises. Can we rely on the Luftwaffe to make up the shortfall?”
Obergruppenführer Marius Grieger, the Luftwaffe’s representative on Rommel’s staff, hesitated just long enough to earn a glare from his superior. “I have been assured that every transport and fighter in the Luftwaffe will be attached to your force with instructions to haul across everything that you need. The RAF will attempt to interdict the transports, but by the sheer scale of our efforts, we will prevent them from cutting your supply lines entirely.”
“It sounds excellent,” Baeck said carefully. “How much can we get through per day?”
Grieger named a figure. Baeck swore and noted, “Herr Obergruppenführer, a single armoured division needs much more than that each day. We have a stockpile that we built up here over the weeks, but we are going to be digging into that almost immediately and at current rate of expenditure, we are going to be running short of almost everything in two weeks. If the British mount an attack, that stockpile will shrink much faster. I dare say that we couldn’t hold out for more than a day or two before the stockpile runs out completely.”
“We have will and determination on our side,” Hauptsturmfuehrer Grauer Wulfenbach proclaimed. Baeck glared at him and was dimly amused to see Rommel do the same. “We have the right and might to see us through this crisis.
Baeck gave him an icy look. The SS man had recited SS dogma, but he preferred a French doctrine. Fire kills. If the French had paid more attention to that, they might have reshaped the face of Europe instead of the Reich. The SS might boast of how capable it’s soldiers were – and the Waffen-SS was respected by even the regular army – but none of them were bullet-proof, like that American comic book character. Besides, if an eighty-year-old man could shoot down the great Otto Skorzeny, the others couldn’t be all that great. The BBC was still gloating over that incident.
“Once we run out of ammunition, we will be unable to fight,” he said. “We require time and we will not have that time. As soon as the British realise what they have done, they will move at once to attack us and reduce the lodgement to nothing.”
Standartenfuhrer Ludwig Stahl spoke with a lazy precision, “There is a simpler question. How long until the supply lines can be re-established?”
“We need to relocate several destroyers and draw air support from the Luftwaffe,” Wulff answered. “We couldn’t send anything at night, for example, and supply lines would have to be altered at a moment’s notice if one of the British battleships came charging down the Channel. It will take us at least a week to be confident that we could get something across the Channel, and as long as the British are alert, they might take a bite out of it.”
“A week,” Stahl said. “Could we hold out for a week?”
Rommel commented as he nodded. “No German Field Marshal has ever surrendered. We will hold the line as best as we can, but attempt to avoid contact with the enemy as much as possible. If pressed, we will attempt a fighting retreat and hold the armoured units in reserve to seal off any major British penetration of our lines.”
“Good,” Stahl said. “We will keep the British population off the streets.”
Rommel glared at him and Baeck shuddered. Rommel had been furious when the Felixstowe Wives had been killed, and almost apoplectic about several other reprisals that Stahl had ordered, but there was no stopping him now that he had the Führer’s permission. Threatening to kill someone for disobeying orders was fine, and shooting someone caught in the act was fine, but killing people for no good reason was simply not acceptable. The wives, as far as anyone knew – even Stahl had admitted as much – had been innocent victims. How had they merited death? Killing people who had obeyed orders and done nothing to harm the Reich convinced others that they had nothing to lose. There had been a spate of killings, attacks and sabotage directed against the Reich. They couldn’t allow the distraction…
But Stahl had ensured that they would be distracted. Rommel ordered, “You will do it with as little violence as possible. I am calling up half your security force to support Das Reich and you don’t need the distraction.”
Stahl glared at him. “You don't have the authority to order anything like…”
Rommel said pleasantly, but with an icy undertone of pure threat in his voice. Wulfenbach stared forward and was halted in his tracks by a glare. “It's already done, Standartenfuhrer. You can complain to the Fuhrer later, but right now I have a war to fight. I will commandeer your men, your equipment, and anything else I need to win the battle ag
ainst our enemies... or would you like to explain to the Fuhrer how you allowed us to be pushed out of England because you were more concerned about the limits of my authority than his great victory over the British? I allow a certain amount of informality, but even my patience has its limits.”
Baeck’s felt his hand fall to the pistol at his belt as Rommel’s voice hung in the air. He hoped that Stahl would recognise the threat before it was too late. Rommel had plenty of loyal men who would be quite happy to assassinate Stahl and blame it on the British insurgents.
Rommel, as supreme commander, had found a way to limit the damage Stahl could actually do and by assigning the SS men to Das Reich, they wouldn’t even be able to claim that they were being moved away from their own people. The commander of Das Reich would have no time for whining from the security forces.
“We can expect a British attack fairly soon,” Rommel said ignoring the tension in the room. “I intend to meet that attack and destroy it. Towards that end, I want a safe and secure rear area. You will not commit any acts of reprisal without my direct permission, understand?”
Stahl managed to look as if he was humouring Rommel. “Of course,” he said. “Herr Generalfeldmarschall…”
“Good,” Rommel agreed. He put the map on the table and pointed down at the various defensive lines. “I want the remains of 7th Panzer to remain here, supported by…”
***
“That…man,” Wulfenbach burst out, as soon as they were alone together. The fury in his voice was no surprise to his commanding officer. “How dare he speak to you like that?”
Stahl gave him a pleasant smile. “Like what?”
“Like he was in command,” Wulfenbach protested. “No Wehrmacht officer has the right to dictate to an SS man under any circumstances…”
“Be quiet,” Stahl commanded, allowing some of his own anger to show. Wulfenbach would never make field grade unless he learned to be more adaptable under pressure. His only good attributes were an unshakable loyalty towards the SS and a unflinching attitude towards the more unpleasant, but necessary, acts that the SS needed to commit from time to time. “There are political issues here, understand?”
He cut Wulfenbach off before he could make more than a token comment. Wulfenbach continued explaining to his dense underling, “The Reichsführer-SS wanted to ensure that Occupied Britain becomes mainly an SS state controlled by us for the benefit of the SS and the Reich, as what is good for us is good for the Reich. The recent change in the war situation is not necessarily to our advantage. If our illustrious Generalfeldmarschall is unable to prevent the British from stabbing back into our lodgement, the invasion will come to an end and we will be lucky not to fall into British hands.”
“They will not succeed,” Wulfenbach protested. His voice dropped into a brainwashed monotone. “We are the Masters of the Will, and the Will is the Key to Success.”
“There are times,” Stahl said without any hope that Wulfenbach would understand, “when I think that the training and induction courses include too much propaganda and too little common sense. The British intend to launch as powerful an attack as they can muster, one that will aim to punch through the defence lines and push us into the sea. We need Rommel to handle that part of the invasion, which means, for the moment, doing as Rommel orders.”
Wulfenbach worked it out slowly. “So what are we going to do?”
“What we have been ordered to do,” Himmler had issued them his orders personally, and Stahl was determined to see that they were carried out. Of course, if he failed, he meant to ensure the Army got the blame. “We're going to keep Felixstowe and the surrounding area as peaceful as possible.”
He yawned suddenly, ignoring the shock on Wulfenbach's face as he continued, “And that will keep us occupied and free of any tint of the blame for failure. Yes, we may fail and lose the lodgement, and if that happens, the SS must not be blamed, understand?”
Wulfenbach nodded slowly. Stahl said. “Good. You are dismissed.”
Stahl's mind raced as soon as Wulfenbach closed the door behind him. He still hadn’t solved the mystery of what Brigadefuhrer Franz Deininger had been doing with the French tart, something that only fed his frustration. Had Deininger organised his own torture and interrogation? Stahl doubted that Deininger had that sort of courage. It was possible that he might have done just that and somehow hidden it from Stahl and his investigators, or maybe his crazy tale was true. He’d been packed off back to Berlin, and was probably shaking his head in relief at having left Occupied Britain, but Stahl had gotten something out of it. He removed his tunic before standing.
He went into the next room. He had wanted to keep the girl close, and no one would bat an eyelid at an SS man taking a local mistress. He ordered, as he undid his pants, “Stand up and bend over the bed. Now, bitch!”
“Jawohl, Herr Übermensch,” Janine said as she bent over. Deininger, Stahl considered, had definitely found a spectacular piece of ass. Sweet, obedient, and very aware of what could happen to her if she failed to obey. “I am here to serve.”
***
“Fuck you,” Gregory Davall growled as soon as they had all appeared in the hidden shack. “I don’t fucking care any longer.”
McAllister looked at him grimly. “What have you done with James?”
“I sent him to one of his friends and asked them to take care of him for a few weeks,” Davall hissed. “How the fuck do we tell him that his mother died because his father was too much of a fucking coward to give himself up?”
He punched the ground hard enough to hurt. “The poor boy doesn’t really understand, not yet. Did I ever tell you that he got married to one of the Davidson girls? Oh, they were just toddlers at the time, but they pretended to be husband and wife for a few days until they got bored of the game. He doesn’t even understand that he won’t see Sally again, let alone his mother and…”
“You had no choice,” McAllister said. “Kate was dead the minute they took her…”
“How can you be so fucking cold?” Davall demanded. “What are you made of?”
“I know that the Germans have done this everywhere and will do it here unless we stop them,” McAllister hissed. “I work in the docks, remember? I worked with Frenchmen, Danes, even Spaniards who landed and came out for some rest and relaxation. They talked after a few drinks, Greg. They talked about their lives under the Nazis. There wasn't one of them who wouldn’t have wanted to live in Britain or America instead, not one…and do you know why? It’s because the Nazis were slowly making their lives unliveable!”
“We all knew what the Nazis were doing up here,” Davall said tapping the side of his head. He moved his hand to his chest. “We just didn’t believe it down here. I have been involved in this movement since 1940, in one role or another, but very few of us really believed just how bad it could become…”
“It’s going to get worse,” McAllister said. “The Germans talk as well, you know, and the BBC was right. They lost a lot of ships at the hands of the boys in the navy.”
“Our boys,” Davall said.
McAllister shrugged. As someone affiliated with the Merchant Navy, he tended to hold the Royal Navy in a certain kind of contempt. He replied, “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that the Germans have lost most of their supply lines.”
Davall shook his head. “So?”
McAllister blinked and stated, “So? So the Germans are going to be short of food, fuel, weapons…everything they need to fight the war. What that means, as far as we are concerned, is that the Germans are probably going to start putting people on short rations…”
“Well,” Davall snapped, “they’ve certainly reduced the town’s population a little, haven’t they?”
“And they’re going to start restricting us even more,” McAllister continued. “I must say that I find your attitude a little odd…because a little bird told me that the Germans are about to face the might of the British Army.”
Davall looked up, feeling, for t
he first time, some real hope. “The Army is going to get the Germans out of here?”
“They hope so,” McAllister said. He had taken over some of the communication duties when Davall’s mood had turned too black and depressed. “They want us to do as much as we can to hammer the Germans, cutting their supply lines, harassing their rear areas…”
“Encouraging them to make more reprisals,” Davall added mournfully.
“You don’t have anything else to lose,” Rigby said. “You’re free and easy.”
Davall almost smashed him in the nose.
“I’ve lost my wife,” he complained. The raw pain in his voice made the others flinch. “They want one final effort, right?”
“Right,” McAllister said. He reached out and placed a comforting hand on Davall’s shoulder. “You could sit this one out if you want, Greg. No one here would think any less of you…”
“Count me in,” Davall replied harshly. He wasn’t going to let the opportunity pass him by. “There is one condition. The SS bastard, Stahl, I want him dead and screaming in Hell. I don’t care anymore about rules or something that will let the bastards in London allow him to get away with his crimes. I want him dead!”
The Invasion of 1950 Page 48
