The Invasion of 1950

by Nuttall, Christopher

  Baeck nodded and said, “Jawohl, I shall issue the orders at once.”

  In the distance, the noise of shellfire grew louder. “Field Marshal, should we not prepare our own retreat to Ipswich?”

  “I suppose,” Rommel said, his mind clearly heading elsewhere. “Send everyone who isn’t essential to Ipswich now, and we’ll follow them if the British bring this place under direct threat.”

  ***

  Obergruppenführer Dolphus Taenberger cursed as he finally received his orders. It had taken nearly a fortnight to reorganise Das Reich into something the Waffen-SS could be proud of and now he was being ordered to stand his ground and prevent the British from sealing up a neat little trap for the German forces. He’d listened to the reports and read between the line. The British had punched a massive hole in the German defence line and were well on their way to encircling the German forces before they could escape. Whatever shine Rommel tried to put on it, it was defeat, and the best Das Reich could do was prevent the retreat from turning into a complete rout.

  “Advance,” he barked, and the massive force rumbled into motion. Das Reich, like all of the redesigned Waffen-SS forces, was almost a small army in its own right. It was a combination of an oversized Panzer Division, an infantry division and a small artillery section. They were supposed to have the best equipment and its own private air force, but with the war situation having taken such a turn, they were forced to improvise more than Taenberger would have liked.

  They were already weaker than he cared to be, and some of his men hadn’t trained with the remainder of Das Reich in fact, were little more than glorified thugs and bullyboys. They might have worn the same uniform as Taenberger himself, but they would never have qualified for the Waffen-SS. Their only reason for existing was to keep subject populations down. The only men lower than them were the extermination squads.

  He raised his binoculars as he peered into the distance. The British assault was fading, judging from the declining number of explosions in the distance, but he was experienced enough to know what that meant. The British advancing forces were so close to the German forces that the British guns were holding their fire, in fear of accidentally slaughtering their own forces. The British may have beaten 7th Panzer, but Das Reich was a whole different kettle of fish.

  A red-hot pain tore through his shoulder, and he gasped in pain, just as the infantry unleashed a hail of shots into a small tree. An Englishman tumbled out of the tree, breaking his neck as he hit the ground. The infantry dismounted and attacked, discovering several more armed British civilians trying to hide. Taenberger allowed one of the medical corps-men to bandage his wound, commenting on how the Gruppenfuhrer should go to the rear with such a wound, but he glared the corps-man into silence. There were tales of SS men who had fought on despite the most punishing wounds, and he wasn't going to leave his men just because he’d been shot.

  The infantry held up the British civilians for his attention. Taenberger dismissed any thought of them being a stay-behind unit at once; their tactical thinking had been appalling. They should have been able to kill him from a much longer range with that weapon; the Waffen-SS didn’t think highly of many British weapons, but the Haig Sniper Rifle was definitely respected. There were four of them in all, three of them young men and one young women, all trembling in fear.

  Taenberger didn’t bother to mince words. “Where do you come from?”

  “Down there,” one of the men said, trying to put a protective arm around the girl. His captor smacked him on the head; Taenberger nodded in approval. Judging from their appearance, they were brother and sister, rather than lovers. “Sir, I…”

  “Shut up,” Taenberger commanded. He glanced around at the tree. “Hang them, quickly.”

  He ignored their pleading screams, as the infantry strung them up quickly and efficiently. The pain in his shoulder was making it hard for him to think straight. The SS rules of engagement were very clear. A village that harboured insurgents was to be destroyed to discourage the others. Rommel wouldn’t be happy, but judging by the progress of the war, Rommel would likely be removed from command soon. He summoned his orderly, ordered a map, and examined it quickly. they should just have enough time.

  Das Reich left the four bodies dangling in the breeze and advanced against the town. The civilian population was trying to keep their heads down, but it didn’t save them, not when the infantrymen broke into houses and arrested everyone over the age of ten. There was some desperate fighting, but without any real weapons, it could only have one outcome. Das Reich had carried out similar tactics in Russia; by now, despite the Aryan appearance of the villagers, they were hardened to their task.

  “Burn them,” Taenberger ordered, as his men finished herding the adults into the church. The flame-thrower unit set the church ablaze as Taenberger remembered mocking the assignment. Now, he had a lopsided grin on his face as the church became an inferno. The SS had destroyed churches in Russia and it pleased Taenberger to watch as the small building burned, taking its entire congregation with it. The flames would probably spread further, perhaps burning down the village and the children, but Taenberger no longer cared. The pain in his shoulder was throbbing.

  He barked orders and Das Reich commenced moving again, spreading out and trying to avoid possible mines. They encountered soldiers and almost opened fire before they realised that they were Germans, fleeing the battlefield, heading back to the lines around Ipswich. Taenberger felt growing rage and hatred in his breast, seriously considering just opening fire and ridding the Reich of such weak stock, but that would just be wasteful. The handful of vehicles that passed Das Reich were commandeered and added to the defence line; the remaining soldiers were allowed to pass unless they wanted to stay. It wouldn’t be long before the British forces arrived…and by then, Taenberger wanted to be ready. He would have preferred to advance, but conserving resources was the order of the day…

  Behind them, the church collapsed in on itself in a fiery geyser of destruction.

  ***

  Flying Officer Bentley saw the tanks on the ground as his Tempest headed north and took a moment to identify them as British. He waggled his wings as he flew onwards. It always made the tankers happy to know that they had air support, particularly since the Germans had introduced the world to the concept of aircraft serving as tank-busters. The soldiers on the ground could take heart in knowing that he was going to deal out some of the same hell to their enemies as their enemies had been dealing out to them.

  The scene below was completely chaotic. The Germans appeared to be in headlong retreat towards Ipswich, but how long would it be before they regrouped and counter-attacked? The Germans were masters at counter-attacking against enemy forces that punched too far forward , but Monty was careful to ensure that his rear area was secure before pushing forward. His forces would also have to take care when advancing. The Germans would have pulled out all the stops to try and delay them, including mines and an entire series of ingenious booby traps. Bentley peered down at the ground, taking care to avoid any German aircraft that might be prowling around, when he saw the smoke plume rising up into the sky.

  Odd, he thought. The flames were rising up from a village, one that seemed to be deserted. The fires were spreading out of control and, judging from some of the marks surrounding the village, the Germans had passed through recently.

  He ground his teeth as he followed the tracks, finally locating the German force, digging into a perfect blocking position, one that would allow them to hold up the advancing 2nd Armoured Division for hours. He keyed his radio and made a call, sending an update to the gunners which would be moving forward with the other elements of the army, before selecting his rocket pods and racing down to hit the Germans before they could react. They knew he was in the area. He raced towards them, taking aim, and launched the first spread of rockets as he passed over the Panzers. The first rocket blew apart a Panzer as he raced overhead, the others scored their own hits and then he wa
s up again, racing to avoid the handful of shots from the anti-aircraft gunners.

  Take that, he thought, as the Tempest clawed for air. He'd made a Zone Call, summoning every gun within range to devote all of its fire to hammering the German position, and as he watched, the first shells began landing around the German force. The advancing British infantry and tanks would have a much easier time of it. Bentley smiled to himself and checked his weapons before flipping the Tempest around and searching for new targets. There would be hundreds more out there needing his attention.

  ***

  The German position held out for nearly an hour before the combination of shellfire and the advancing infantry finally cleared them out. Jackson watched from his vantage point as Sergeant Wilt led the offensive right into the heart of the German position, either securing or finishing off injured Germans. Jackson followed him as soon as most of the Germans had been removed. The Germans had been planning a real surprise, with several dozen Panzers and various other vehicles in position to launch an ambush, but that hope had come to an end with their discovery and the massive bombardment called in on their heads.

  Serves you right, Jackson thought, as he peered down at one of the bodies. There was no mistaking the black uniform and silver insignia that each man wore; the lightning bolts and sideways ‘Z’ were very familiar. The officer he was looking at had a bandage on his shoulder and an explosion had taken off a good part of his face. From the rank insignia, Jackson was sure this was his opposite number. This man had clearly been in command of the SS force

  Jackson could speak and read German – it was a requirement these days for any senior army post – and the Germans looked to have been Das Reich. They had a bad reputation from the Russian front as being as fanatical and unpleasant as any other German unit, matched only by the awed respect some of the survivors had exhibited when they had talked about its sheer prowess at fighting. If they had remained unnoticed long enough for the British forces to stick their head into the noose, who knew what would have happened?

  “Move the prisoners to the rear and let’s move on,” Jackson said. Monty’s follow-up units would be clearing out the remaining Germans as they advanced towards Ipswich, but organised German activity now was limited. A series of brutal and local counter-attacks had exploded in the British face, some of them throwing back oncoming British troops for hours.

  He paused to watch as a line of tanks rumbled past, some of their crewmen waving to the infantry as they paused to catch their breath and have a cigarette. The tankers looked as battered as everyone else, but just being on the offensive was enough of a thrill to keep them going, far from the dark days when they had fallen back and fallen back again. Jackson knew that the war wouldn’t end when Felixstowe was liberated, but perhaps the Germans would see reason and not continue the war, or maybe even overthrow Hitler and…

  It was an hour later when they discovered the village.

  It hadn’t been on the list of primary locations to secure, it was something for them to do while Monty consolidated his gains and prepared for the final advance. Jackson and his tired infantrymen had walked along the road, noticing that the SS Panzer Division had come down it from all the damage its passage had done to the road, and finally reached the burning village. The flames were dying down now. The church was barely recognisable as such, but the remains of scores of bodies were easy to recognise, as were the handful of surviving children in the village. The Germans had just left them there to die.

  He heard the noise of some of his soldiers being sick and cursed the Germans under his breath. They had thought they understood war and the effects of war.

  Jackson stared into the distance, towards Ipswich, and vowed revenge.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Felixstowe, England

  The small body of SS men looked nervous as they walked down the road. Their swagger, their normal ‘we’re the masters around here and don’t even think of questioning us’ attitude, their confidence in themselves…all of it was gone. They were armed with weapons that the British civilians didn’t have – hell, most of the British civilians didn’t have any weapons at all – but somehow they looked as if they expected to be kicked at any moment. Their leader, a fish-faced man holding his rifle in a white-knuckled grip, was a known rapist. He’d raped a girl last night, only to be arrested by the police and released instantly. The policemen had all been taken into one of the German detention camps the same night, just in case. The Germans were losing their grip over the country.

  Gregory Davall observed the Germans with the hungry gaze of a predator as they marched closer. He’d seen more Germans than he ever wanted to in his life, but this group was the worst; they marched as if they thought someone was going to draw a gun and start shooting at them. The remaining SS security forces had given up trying to control entire sections of the town. They were trying to conserve their forces…and, if what the Grey Wolves had heard was true, half of them had even been sent to the front. If they were all like the sorry specimens approaching them, the British Army would be at Felixstowe within the hour…but somehow he doubted it. They could hear the sound of guns in the distance, but there was no sign of liberation, not yet.

  “Now,” he ordered, and Lucy slipped out of the house. Lucy was the wife of one of the Grey Wolves, a blonde girl who could easily have passed for the German bitch who had registered Davall and Katy, so long ago. He watched as Lucy slipped up to the Germans and told them, tearfully, that there was a group of unarmed men in the house plotting insurrection and would they please come take them away before they got her and her family killed? Davall had feared that the Germans would do the smart thing and call for reinforcements before they came crashing in, but instead they ran up to the door, weapons extended, and charged into the house. They ran into the kitchen, and the Grey Wolves surrounded them, weapons pointing directly at their chests.

  “You have a choice,” Davall said in perfect German. He’d been practising for his role. “If you surrender now, your lives will be spared, and you will be shipped back to the continent as soon as possible. If you fight, you will die here with the others.”

  The German leader, sweating, let go of his weapon. The others followed suit a moment later. Lucy slipped back indoors and looked down at them for a moment before heading up to her bedroom. She wasn’t going to be involved any longer. If the Germans managed to hold onto Felixstowe, she would have to go into hiding, but Davall intended to ensure that the German grip on the town fell apart completely.

  “Strip,” he ordered, once the Germans had been searched for hidden surprises. They had been carrying a surprising number of weapons on their uniforms, from ceremonial knifes to smaller knifes and even a few grenades, all of which the Grey Wolves added to their collection. The Germans, stripped down to their underwear, were rapidly handcuffed, gagged, and urged down the steps into the basement where they were chained to the wall. Davall suspected that they might manage to escape eventually – it was a lot harder to gag someone effectively than it was in the American cowboy films – but by then, one way or the other, it would all be settled. “Remain here, and you will not be harmed.”

  The German uniforms didn’t fit perfectly, but they could all pass reasonably well, provided that they didn’t have to talk to the enemy for long. Three of the Grey Wolves spoke perfect German, but their accents wouldn’t be perfect. The only way they would succeed in infiltrating the HQ would be through surprise and speed. They checked the weapons, noticing how few rounds each German carried, and marched out of the house. Davall forced his face to remain blank as he caught the eye of some of the townspeople. They didn’t see him, but only the SS man, wearing the hated uniform. He might be killed by one of his own people.

  The Germans buzzed around like a hornet’s nest. Davall saw dozens of SS officers running backwards and forwards, some of them seemingly without any clear idea of what they were doing, while still others were heading out on commandeered vehicles. The SS vehicles they’d seen back at
the start of the invasion were gone, replaced now by British vehicles, none of which had really been designed for security purposes. They approached the barracks gate expecting to be challenged at any moment, but instead the guards let them in and waved them towards an officer. Davall guessed that the officer wanted a report of what was happening on the streets, but they didn’t dare try to fool him. The officer could quite possibly know all of his men by sight. The Germans might have looked alike in the black uniforms and coal-scuttle helmets to the watching British, as if someone had hewn them out of cold clay, but the Germans could probably tell the difference between them. Davall led his men towards the main entrance to the barracks, just as a crowd of men burst out, heading towards the exit and out onto the streets. There would never be a better opportunity…

  Davall lifted his German-made assault rifle and opened fire. The others followed suit. Caught by surprise, the Germans were hacked down quickly and efficiently. The guards at the gate, expecting a British raid from the outside, turned too late. Two of Davall’s men gunned them down before running to the gates and closing them completely. The Germans on the outside would know that something had gone badly wrong, but it would take them time to realise what had happened and by then, Davall hoped to have completed their task and vanished into the side streets.

  “Move,” he ordered as he gunned down a German officer. They left bloody foot prints on the pavement, with dead or wounded Germans everywhere, but there was no time to finish off the wounded. The Germans on the inside should know that they were under attack and couldn’t be allowed to regroup, or the attack would fail before it had even begun. He unhooked a fragmentation grenade from his belt and tossed it into the lobby, before following in and shooting down a pair of German clerks who had been sheltered by their desks. The files that had recorded every detail of every person who lived in Felixstowe were caught and slowly burned to ash. Davall laughed aloud as he threw more grenades into the barracks, hearing the screams of Germans who were caught by surprise before they even had a chance to react and escape, let alone counter-attack