The Dead Alone (Empires Lost Book 3)

by Charles S. Jackson

  “Chargé Warnock,” he began slowly after a long breath, fighting to keep his tone calm and level and well aware that any wrong move now might ultimately be both politically and literally fatal at some later date. There was no point in hiding that he knew what they were talking about, so he decided to lay his cards down on the table. “Please understand that any such move would be considered by the Führer to be an extreme provocation… possibly an act of war…”

  “This is already an act of war…!” Warnock shouted in return, his short, stocky frame shaking with righteous fury. “Your troops are fighting on our soil, killing our men and women, and you accuse Ireland of warlike acts? Another so-called ‘great’ nation once thought to enslave the Irish people, and we fought them for centuries before we won the freedom we have today! If you think we’re scared of Nazi aggression then you’re right, sir… we are scared...!” He spat with vehemence, rage spraying from his lips. “But even the weakest animal will turn and fight if it is cornered, Reichsmarschall… turn and fight to the death if it thinks it has nothing to lose!”

  They were all standing now, the three German officers equally rigid with rage but unable to act over the insulting effrontery they perceived from representatives of, militarily, one of the weakest nations of the world; a nation that now dared to threaten the Reich.

  “I gave my word I would have any offensive action on Republican soil halted immediately, Chargé, and I will keep that promise,” Reuters snarled through clenched teeth, now as red and livid with anger as the rest, “however I can only point out that I must also report back to The Führer regarding what has been discussed here. I fear he will not receive this information lightly.”

  “I know what you fear, Reichsmarschall…” Warnock hissed in return, almost managing another sneer, “…and Ireland is going to give it to you…!” He waved an outstretched arm before them in an insultingly dismissive gesture. “This meeting is finished: get out, all of you…!”

  The German contingent filed quickly from the room within a matter of seconds, and it was only as the doors were firmly shut once more, leaving just himself and O’Connell remaining in the room, that Warnock finally allowed his defences to collapse as they’d been threatening to during that entire meeting. Shoulders slumped in defeat, he sobbed openly into his hands and shook his head over the catastrophe that he’d just learned was unfolding before them.

  “Why, Rupert? Why would they all rise up like that? Did they not think what would happen to ‘em…?”

  “They all knew somethin’ was goin’ down, Bill,” O’Connell argued kindly, sliding down into the chair beside his friend. “They’re Irishmen after all: d’you think they’d just sit on their arses and let others do all the hard work…” he gave a lopsided grin “…or take all the glory? It’s in our blood to fight, man… what did y’ expect?”

  “Hundreds dead…! They were bombing them… women, children… everyone… because of…” He took a deep breath, his voice cracking under the strain. “Maybe if we’d…”

  “It’s not your fault, man,” O’Connell cut in, seeing the real problem clearly now. “Our mission was only to involve border guards and regular army… civilians were not to be harmed, and you know it. It’s a terrible thing, this, but the blood’s on their hands and no one else’s…”

  “And I’m supposed to believe that, am I…?” Warnock growled softly, staring across at O’Connell for the first time through red-rimmed eyes.

  “Keep tellin’ yerself and it’ll come eventually…” the major replied wryly with a sad smile “…maybe…”

  “Maybe…” Warnock repeated in a soft, hollow voice.

  “I’ll have the boys start burning everything,” O’Connell decided softly, considering the implications of what they’d just set in motion.

  “It’ll come to that do you think… that they’d storm this place looking for vengeance?”

  “Perhaps not,” the major shrugged, “but it is the Nazis we’re talking about… if we’re to be strung up with piano wire for all this, let’s at least leave the bastards nothin’ to work with.”

  “D’you think it’ll be worth it, Rupert… really worth all this…?”

  “You’re askin’ the wrong fella about that, Bill,” O’Connell answered with a grin that was almost genuine this time. “I’m a military man: we’re trained to accept some sacrifices in return for a victory.” He took a deep breath of his own as he thought more about the question. “The truth now…? Aye, it’s worth the cost all right… to secure Ireland’s safety, it’d be worth any price…!”

  Schiller’s motorcade was pulling up out front at the very moment Reuters and the others stormed angrily down the steps of the Irish Legation and out into the street, the Reichsmarschall caught by surprise for a second or two over the unexpected arrival. He recovered instantly however and was already considering options as his aide climbed from the Opel and jogged to his side.

  “We couldn’t get a message through, Kurt,” he began breathlessly, tension and agitation evident in his face and his tone. “There’s been an ‘incident’ in Ireland…”

  “A ‘border incursion’ by any chance…?” Reuters snapped in return with sarcasm, almost enjoying the surprise on his assistant’s face. “Perhaps with a few hundred dead Belfast civilians thrown into the mix…?”

  “H-how…?” Schiller stammered, his voice faltering.

  “Those clever bastards set us up,” Reuters decided, seeing no other possibility that fit the situation. “Set me up. Leave us waiting for an entire bloody hour just so they can come in and completely by coincidence announce they’ve just learned of a German ‘act of war’ against Irish sovereignty?” He almost scoffed at the transparency of it all now he’d had time to think about it. “Spare me! And they caught me so unawares that I fell for the whole bloody thing, Albert, like some bloody leutnant, straight out of the academy!

  “But we’ll deal with that later,” he decided suddenly, realising that time was of the essence and continuing to slip away at a great rate. “What have we done to take control of this from here? What’s happening over there at the moment?”

  “That’s the problem, Kurt,” Schiller admitted with a grimace, not all happy with the information he was about to give. “The commander on site has so far refused every request I’ve sent through to stand down, or even to send back a bloody status report on what’s happened so far.”

  “Konstantin…!” Reuters bellowed, calling over von Neurath as the man stood at the kerb some yards away, waiting for the arrival of his own driver.

  “Mein Herr…?”

  “Who’s left in charge in your absence? Who’s commanding our forces in Nordirland right now?”

  “Gruppenführer Barkmann would be the ranking officer there in my absence, Kurt,” the Freiherr advised, making no effort to hide his distaste for the man.

  “That sadistic little sodomit…?” Reuters exclaimed with a snarl. “I let Heinrich post him somewhere ‘quiet’ in the hope of keeping him out of the way… it seems that worked well! Exactly the kind of underhanded move I’d expect from that oily little shit,” he added with vehemence, not a single officer within earshot making any effort to contradict him.

  He’d crossed Ernst Barkmann’s path just once, two years before, when the then SS-Brigadeführer had intervened in the arrest of a junior officer Reuters suspected had been his lover at the time… a sadist by the name of Pieter Stahl. Neither man had any love or respect for the other, although the Reichsmarschall’s infinitely superior position had ensured he’d ultimately come away the victor of the exchange.

  “I do know from some unrelated naval reports that they’re currently deploying armoured and aerial units from Albert Schlageter in some capacity,” Schiller advised, having made the most of what information he could obtain.

  “Then we shall take a leaf out of the gruppenführer’s book and approach this problem via the ‘back door’, Albert,” Reuters suggested with an unpleasant smile. “Perhaps we can’t
get through to Belfast, but we can damn sure get a transmission through to the Schlageter via the OKM!”

  “I’ve a radio relay unit here already, Mein Herr,” Schiller pointed out with an evil grin of his own as he extended an arm in the direction of the van parked behind his Opel.

  “Prepared as ever, Albert,” Reuters nodded in appreciation before turning to address von Neurath. “Coming, Freiherr…? We may need your assistance on this one to smooth things over, if indeed that is still possible.”

  “Lead the way, Mein Herr,” the Reichsprotektor acknowledged with a nod of his own and a click of his heels as he came quickly to attention.

  “Do we need our esteemed Foreign Minister too?” Schiller queried softly in a vague tone of distaste, noting that Joachim von Ribbentrop was flagging down his own chauffeur just a few yards away, making no effort to hid his own fury and indignance as he fired a last, lingering glare in Reuter’s direction.

  “Mein Gott, no…!” The Reichsmarschall replied sourly with a grimace. “I expect he’ll be crying in Adolf’s ear within the hour regarding how incompetent I was, and how he saved the day. I shall have to deal with that later also, but not now. Come on, Albert… lead on!”

  The trio of staff officers strode purposefully away as a group toward the waiting radio van, each man’s respective bodyguards trailing close behind.

  Lifford Road, Lifford

  County Donegal, Republic of Ireland

  The road skirted the southern edge of the town centre, with the bulk of Lifford’s homes and buildings beyond its northern border. The land to the south also held some residences and a few shops here and there but to a far lesser density and extent than the other side. A roadblock was set up to their right on Bridge Street, a dozen yards or so back from Lifford Road, as Untersturmführer Milo Wisch pushed his troop of panzers off the bridge. A platoon of green-uniformed Irish regulars stood ready behind huge blocks of concrete with US-made assault rifles in hand, supported by Bren Carriers carrying twin-mounts of 84mm recoilless rifles above their rear cargo area.

  The anger and general hardness of the faces that stared back at him as his Panther rumbled slowly past was sobering to say the least, but it was the recoilless weapons that mostly caught Wisch’s attention. More common as a shoulder-fired infantry weapon, the Australian-designed Mark 2* PITA had acquired a formidable reputation in action against German panzers in North Africa, where it had been one of the few pieces of hardware available to the Allies capable of penetrating the thick frontal armour of a P-4A Panther.

  Newer armoured units in North Africa had subsequently been fitted with ‘skirts’ of wire mesh, hung on steel frames from their turrets and hulls with the intention of prematurely detonating these relatively slow-moving but quite deadly warheads. These schürzen were becoming a standard fitment on new panzers but the take up had been slow in shipping them out to existing units. Feeling very unprotected in that moment as they passed by, openly presenting their weaker flanks to a potential enemy, Wisch felt the sting of regret that his units had not yet been provided those same upgrades.

  And yet for all the threats and bluster they’d received over their radios – transmissions that were still coming through from the Irish 2nd Division HQ - the waiting defenders fired not a single shot. It seemed they were instead willing to draw back from the troop’s expected route and watch as they made their way slowly through the town, gun turrets turning this way and that in search of potential threats, of which there were many.

  Wisch refused to remain buttoned up within his Panther, instead electing to stand up through his hatch with his upper body out in the open for all to see, as was a common German practice. In battle this often meant that German panzer commanders suffered comparatively higher casualties than other nations’ armoured units, however it also contributed to the greater overall effectiveness of those same panzer corps.

  The limited vision available when locked up safe within a tank was a poor substitute for the far greater all-round view that was provided when remaining in the open, and Wehrmacht commanders were trained from the outset to make the best possible use of this benefit when in combat or on manoeuvre. Wisch was well aware that it also placed him in grave danger should any fighting actually start, but it was important to him that his crew and his opposition see that German officers were not afraid to place themselves in harm’s way for their men and their country.

  There were further roadblocks at the next intersection, allowing no movement west on the Lifford Road or north on Butcher Street, yet leaving the way open to the south in the direction of the crash site. The men manning the barriers at Butcher were similar to those seen earlier, while the small arms and recoilless rifles facing them from the west as they entered into a left turn at that intersection were also complemented by several armoured cars and both L-60 tanks of the Irish Defence Forces.

  Both the tanks and armoured cars were armed with quick-firing 20mm cannon that had no chance whatsoever of penetrating the thick hides of Wisch’s Panthers, and would be hard-pressed even to make any kind of impression on Schmidt’s IFVs or Puma armoured car. Their presence however did have some symbolic significance nevertheless, as it gave clear indication that the Irish were willing to commit everything they had should open conflict break out.

  “Berndt…” Wisch muttered softly, transmitting over a frequency his unit reserved for squad commanders. “…A lot of posturing, but they’re not raising a finger to stop us…” The unspoken question was left hanging between them in that open statement.

  “I had noticed,” Schmidt admitted quickly in reply as Wisch momentarily turned his head and caught sight of the man’s Puma toward the rear of the small column. “Either they know they haven’t the forces to do it…” he added with vague optimism both men knew was false.

  “…Or… they’re setting us up…” Wisch finished the sentence quickly, coming to the same unpleasant conclusion as his CO as something else occurred to him. “Because all those concrete blocks just happened to be lying about for them to throw this all together in the last fifteen minutes or so, of course! But why…?” He added slowly, unable to fathom such a concept. “What could they hope to gain by leading us into some kind of trap and possibly provoking open war with Germany?”

  “Never mind about that…” Schmidt shot back instantly, knowing full well neither of them were likely to find an answer to that question and also thinking it ill-advised to be discussing the subject on an open channel. “…Just make bloody sure your boys keep their wits about them…! Remember… wait…” Schmidt continued, as if distracted by something unrelated. “I’m receiving a message from the ship… hold in position…”

  A long pause followed, during which time Wisch instinctively raised his fist in the air and brought his troop to a halt in the middle of the road, just a dozen yards or so around from the centre of the intersection. In the distance he could see clouds of flame from the burning wreckage still rising skyward through a general haze of surrounding smoke, but there was little detail and no sign whatsoever of any dead or wounded. That the sporadic burst of rifle fire seemed to have also ceased might either been a very good or very bad sign.

  The Fennec pushed up toward the head of the column along the verge, its front bumpers and large wheels smashing through fences and knocking over stone walls with abandon as it trundled slowly up to halt adjacent to Wisch’s Panther. One of the large top hatches was thrown back directly behind its cab to reveal the upper body of Pieter Stahl, a rifle in both hands and an almost comical, slightly over-large helmet snugged over his head.

  “What’s happening?” He demanded sharply, turning to cast a savage glare back toward Schmidt’s Puma at the rear of the column as Bauer opened the side door directly below him. “Why are we halted?”

  “Waiting for orders...” Wisch shot back, confident enough to show the superior officer some resistance with the backing of his CO’s directive. “News coming in from the Schlageter.”

  “All units: new orders�
��” Schmidt’s call came through Milo’s headset a moment later, allowing him the inwardly-pleasant luxury of completely ignoring Stahl’s angry rant as he made a show of turning away and pressing the earpiece to the side of his head as he waited for more. “Orders direct from the OKW via Brigadeführer Schultz… all aggressive action is to halt forthwith. Units are to immediately pull back across the bridge pending further instructions…”

  “Acknowledged, Mein Herr,” Wisch replied instantly, a little relieved if anything, but halted as the obvious next question came to him. “What of our men from the crash, Berndt… the wounded…?”

  “I’ve been told that will be sorted out with the local Irish command,” Schmidt shot back, not happy about the idea but under orders all the same. “If they know what’s good for them, they’ll make sure our men are looked after properly…” he added in a softer, far sourer tone “…and before you ask, no, I didn’t argue… these orders come directly from Reichsmarschall Reuters himself… He’s made it clear that from now on we are to accept orders only through our own ship’s command… Gruppenführer Barkmann no longer has authority over this operation… Green-Leader out…”

  “We’ve been ordered to withdraw immediately,” Wisch advised the two stunned SS officers, making his own mental note regarding the emphasis Schmidt had placed on the information regarding Barkmann. “Orders direct from Reuters himself,” he added, deciding to throw that out there right from the start to avoid any arguments and ignoring the not-quite-inaudible “Arschloch…!” Stahl growled as he reacted to the mention of the Reichsmarschall’s name.