Their target would be on the second floor. He led the way up the stairs as quickly as possible. It would be just like the Standartenfuhrer to manage a quick escape and leave his men in the lurch. He had to be found before that happened.
***
Standartenfuhrer Ludwig Stahl had lost control and knew it. The British offensive had been augmented by an entire series of insurgent attacks, and he’d given up ordering reprisals because he no longer had the men to do it. Rommel’s demands for men had weakened him to the point where he was trying to control a vast area with only a few hundred men. Although he hated to admit it, he had lost his grip over almost all of the countryside. The only place that was reasonably ruled was Ipswich and that, he knew, was because there were thousands of German soldiers in the city. It was all he could do to hold on to the vital targets and keep the roads to the port open…not that it mattered any more The supply ships had been held back as the naval war raged, by the time a winner emerged, Stahl was starting to suspect that it would be too late for the lodgement.
He glared across at the French whore on his bed. She was holding one of her hands to her jaw where he had punched her in a fit of anger. She hadn’t deserved his rage, but the cold knowledge that he was losing control of everything and that his career was in flaming ruins had driven him into a frenzy. What could he do to reverse the trend? He couldn’t think of anything, short of mass slaughter, and he didn’t even have the manpower to do that; the most he could do was kill everyone in the detention camps…and violate Rommel’s orders in the process. The SS would get the blame for the loss of the lodgement, and Himmler would be furious. Stahl had considered trying to find a way back to Germany, but without a major wound, that was impossible. The transport aircraft were reserved for wounded men and officers.
“Damn you,” he said, wondering if there was any way to convince Rommel to return his men. Without them, it wouldn’t be long before he lost control over the vital areas as well, and then the failure would be impossible to reverse. “I need the…”
The shooting broke out, so close to Stahl’s hearing that he almost fainted, and he snatched his personal weapon out of his belt. It sounded as if the British were attacking his barracks…and, oddly enough, it made him smile. Everything had just boiled down to the simple matter of staying alive, rather than trying to control and contain an impossible situation. He laughed and turned to the French whore, hoping to share his new understanding, only to see her flying at him, knife in hand. Sheer surprise kept him motionless for a long chilling moment…and then Janine buried her knife in his throat, sending him falling to the ground and into darkness. He was barely aware of her final kick to his groin before he died.
***
“Janine,” Davall cried as they broke into the office. Janine was standing over a very familiar SS officer, clothed in an oversized shirt that would have been white except for the blood covering her. She pulled her knife out of the monster's throat. Davall felt conflicted. He had wanted to break him with his own hands, but he was also relieved that Janine was safe. “Are you all right?”
“I’ve been better,” Janine said, managing a weak smile. Davall’s eyes tracked the bruises on her body and lifted a questioning eyebrow. Her voice hardened into a steely tone. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I see,” Davall said. Whatever Janine had gone though in her final days as a whore, it wasn't something she wanted to talk about. Davall didn’t want to think about what her captor might have done to her. “We have to get out of here!”
Janine picked up a robe, covered herself more appropriately, and followed Davall and his men into the next room. A handful of blonde typists sat there crying. Davall allowed himself a moment of disgust as he saw how the women trembled while Janine had killed her tormentor. He saw the blonde woman who had taken down their details, long ago, and shot her through the head, leaving the others to remain behind in the burning barracks. The Germans would be trying to organise a counter-attack, but as long as they didn’t know what was happening for certain, there was still a chance to escape.
He caught Janine’s eye and winked at her. One way or another, the Reich’s occupation of Felixstowe would never recover from what they’d done and maybe they would be able to escape completely before it was too late. They ran down the stairs, hearing shooting and explosions from all over the town, and escaped out the back gates as the Germans attacked the front, trying to recapture the barracks.
“Run,” he ordered shortly and caught Janine’s hand. It would be unsafe in the extreme to be caught out in the open in German uniforms; they’d have both sides out for their blood. “Keep running and don’t look back!”
***
It wasn’t, as Monty acknowledged privately, the most organised assault the British Army had ever mounted, but once they punched through the Colchester Line, the British Army regrouped and pushed on northwards towards the Ipswich Line. The Germans were on the retreat, hounded and harried by the British as they thrust forward to trap and destroy any stragglers. As they broke though the defences, the opposition tailed off. British tanks raced to the north, rumbling through towns and villages with bemused inhabitants holding out flowers and British flags for their liberators, trying to thrust as far north as possible before the Germans could regroup. In the wake of the armour, the infantry advanced, securing vital locations, clearing minefields. Along the way they were meeting up with insurgents and commandos for the final stage of the battle.
In his headquarters, Monty watched as the German lines formed around Ipswich and braced himself for the result of the final confrontation. He had learned his art in the desert, and then through endless exercises with his forces, but now he knew the cost of the coming offensive. If he won the battle, he would win the campaign, but the cost would be horrific. He’d stopped answering Churchill’s calls. Like him, all the Prime Minister could do now was wait.
***
The radio from Berlin cut in and out, but the gist of the message was clear. No German Field Marshal had ever surrendered before, and Rommel was absolutely forbidden to be the first. Hitler had spoken on Radio Berlin himself, warning the Reich of hard days of struggle ahead and inviting the people of Germany to join him in believing that the legendary Rommel could draw victory from the very jaws of defeat. Baeck watched Rommel, knowing as much as Rommel himself about their position, and saw no way out of the trap.
“No German Field Marshal has ever surrendered,” Rommel said slowly. His eyes looked down at the map, perhaps matching it to his memories of the combat zone and seeing only darkness. He understood what the situation meant. “No German Field Marshal has ever surrendered.”
“No,” Baeck agreed morosely. He was tempted to make a remark about there always being a first time, but there was little point; he needed, the Reich needed, Rommel to be thinking properly. “Is there any way that we can create a victory?”
Rommel shook his head slowly.
“The British are preparing to cut off Ipswich and advance on the port,” he said. “Once that happens, our defeat will become inevitable.”
His lips twitched humourlessly. “There’s little point in continuing the struggle.”
Even though Baeck had known that it was inevitable, he was still shocked to hear Rommel advocating surrender. It wasn't in his legend. The man who had danced backwards and forwards in North Africa on a shoestring wouldn’t have surrendered.
He groped for words. “Is there truly no hope?”
Rommel nodded.
“Hans, contact the British commander and inform him that I would like to discuss an armistice,” he said. “Johan, inform the Reich that I am surrendering and accept no further calls from Berlin.
Then pass the orders to the defenders on the line and Felixstowe. They are to surrender, hand over their weapons, and comport themselves with the dignity required of German officers and men.”
He pronounced doom in a soft, almost heartbreaking voice. “The Invasion of Britain is at an end.”
&nb
sp; Chapter Fifty-Seven
Felixstowe, England
The British Army entered Felixstowe as the sun slowly set in the sky.
Colonel Harry Jackson looked upon the town he’d known and served in – although he hadn’t liked it much – and felt like crying. Seeing the results of the final struggle for control, a struggle only ended by Rommel’s surrender, almost broke his heart. Buildings had been destroyed, the main street was pockmarked by bullets, and a handful of the town’s notables were hanging from trees, hung by either the Germans or the resistance fighters. It looked as if the Germans would get the blame, but he had his doubts.
The Germans had retreated or surrendered. Some had boarded the final ships and set off across the Channel, trying to escape the vengeance of the British, while others had scattered into the surrounding area, trying to escape and become guerrillas. They would all be rounded up, sooner or later, but until then Felixstowe would remain a dangerous area. Some of them, he suspected, would still be in touch with Berlin and remain underground until the war finally came to an end. Mere hours after Rommel’s surrender had been broadcast, a flight of German bombers had hammered London with impunity, a reminder that the Reich was still across the Channel and the lives of British citizens would be blighted by the threat of war. The Germans, deprived of most of their fleet, would be unable to mount a second invasion in a hurry, but somehow he was sure that they would find other ways to continue the war. They might expand the submarine campaign.
He shook his head. That was well above his pay grade. “Sergeant,” he said as the marching soldiers finally fell out of line. The citizens were happy to see them. Jackson had seen several soldiers kissed by girls and had turned a blind eye for once. They all deserved a treat after so long. “Fall out all the men who have family in the area and inform them that they have five hours of leave to visit them and discover how they are.”
“Yes, sir,” Wilt said, and busied himself issuing orders. “And yourself, sir?”
“Company A, follow me,” Jackson said. Company A was composed largely of regular army soldiers from Newcastle. Instead of visiting relatives, they had less pleasant task to perform. “Keep the remainder of the soldiers on a loose leash at the barracks.”
Wilt winked in understanding. “Yes, sir,” he said. The soldiers could have their celebrations at the barracks and the areas surrounding the barracks, which happened to include several pubs. “A very loose leash indeed.”
Jackson led the company of men over to the village green, composing himself as best as he could; this wasn't going to be easy. The men sitting on the green, their hands laced together on their heads, looked as if they’d been abused; it would be difficult, if not impossible, to sort out who had taken legitimate injuries from the fighting from those who had actually been abused by their captors, assuming that anyone cared to try. Jackson wasn't sure if he wanted to try, not after seeing the damage and the signs of Das Reich’s passing, but maybe he would have no choice. No one was certain how scrupulously the Germans had adhered to the rules of war, at least in relating to British soldiers, and it would be a mistake to give them an excuse to start abusing the British prisoners.
He saw the man in charge and waved to him. The insurgent looked like a bandit, but he was grinning from ear to ear.
“We rounded up these pigs for you,” he said, cheerfully. Jackson stared at him, finally recognising him as one of the local bartenders. He’d owned the Dangling Prussian. “Do you want to hang them over there or shoot them all dead?”
“I am taking them into my custody,” Jackson said flatly. There was little point in arguing, especially because part of him shared the desire to just exterminate the Germans and be done with it. “How many others are there in the area?”
The bartender shrugged. He waved a hand at a sobbing girl, her hair shaved off and her dress torn and ripped, pulled tight around her to hide as much as possible. “You might as well have her too. She slept with the Germans and lorded it over everyone else.”
“Thank you,” Jackson said tightly. He had orders to prevent any kind of revenge attacks until the government sorted out who was actually to blame and who had been placed in a position where they had no choice but to collaborate. “If there are any other collaborators around, you are to place them into my custody as well.”
The innkeeper stared at him. “But sir…”
“Don’t argue,” Jackson stated grimly, seeing the face of post-war Britain in his mind’s eye. It wasn't going to be a pleasant place to live. “I want you to see to it personally, and not a one of them is to be harmed until they have a fair trial, understand?”
The innkeeper shuffled off, and Jackson devoted himself and his soldiers to securing and counting the prisoners before herding them out of town towards one of their former detention camps. The innkeeper and his men returned with some unwilling captives, mainly young women, although he had clearly taken Jackson’s words to heart. Only one of them had had her head shaved.
Jackson shook his head slowly. The invasion might have been defeated, but the scars would remain for a very long time. Families would be torn apart, communities would wage war on one another, feuds would be nurtured for years to come. Was such a country really worth fighting for? He imagined their possible future and saw nothing, but darkness.
***
Although there had been hundreds of acts of resistance in the final few days of the German offensive, it still surprised Gregory Davall to see how many people had come out of the woodwork claiming to have been insurgents all along. Janine – her role unknown to all but the Grey Wolves – had narrowly escaped having her hair shaved off, and since then, an armed Grey Wolf had remained with her at all times. Davall wouldn’t hesitate to shoot one of his former townspeople. Their gratitude was severely lacking, even though he had lost his wife as well.
“She was a magnificent woman,” he said to Janine as they stood together in front of the mass grave. The Germans had dumped all the bodies into the same grave. The townspeople were promised that the grave would be dug up and the civilians buried in a proper grave, but Davall wasn't too keen on the idea. Kate would never have forgiven him for allowing her body to be disturbed after she was buried. “She deserved better.”
“I know,” Janine said. Her scars hadn’t healed much in the time between Stahl’s death and the liberation of Felixstowe, but dressed properly for once, it was much harder to tell that she had been hurt. Her appearance always made Davall smile. He'd seen her without clothes, in circumstances that should have embarrassed both of them, but now she looked more attractive than undressed. “What are you going to do now?”
Davall smiled sadly. “I’m not going to stay here,” he said after a long moment. “There are too many people who blame me, us, for the deaths of their wives, and they will be taking it out on us after a few days. I can’t gainsay them. Perhaps, if I had surrendered, it would have been easier for us.”
His voice broke off.
“I’m going to take James and go north,” he said after a moment. He didn’t miss the brief expression on her face. “Do you want to come with me?”
Janine reached out and gave him a hug.
“There’s nothing for me here either,” she said. “If you’ll allow me to come with you, then I will be happy to follow you anywhere.”
Davall kissed her and led her back towards the village green. Churchill was supposed to speak to the townspeople. He was the first of an endless stream of government ministers who would be coming to tell them how sorry they were that the townspeople had been put through hell and that it wouldn’t happen again. Particularly if the townspeople voted them in again. Davall suspected that there would be a few changes to the country in the next few years. There were hundreds of thousands of people with guns now, and the determination to use them. The next trade union dispute might get very interesting.
“Or maybe I’ll go into politics,” Davall mused as they reached the village green. The MP for the area had been in London durin
g the occupation and had been strongly condemned for remaining there, rather than sharing the trials and tribulations of his people. Davall’s fighting credentials were first-rate. “What do you think of that?”
Janine considered it.
“I don’t know,” she said finally. “What’s wrong with earning an honest living?”
***
Winston Churchill insisted on visiting the liberated area as quickly as possible, despite the unified opposition of Monty, Alexander and Alex DeRiemer himself. A company of soldiers had been devoted to his protection as he was driven along battered roads, passing British soldiers mopping up after the fighting had died down. They finally drove into Felixstowe as darkness fell. The streets were still brightly lit. A street party was going on that rivalled anything that DeRiemer had seen since the end of the last war, but then that had been a messy and inconclusive ending to the fighting. The British Empire might not have defeated the Nazi beast and killed it in its lair, but it was a clear and very conclusive victory. The invasion of Britain was over.
The Invasion of 1950 Page 51
