The Invasion of 1950

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  “A good thought,” Colonel Felton-Smith said, finally. “What about the mines?”

  Jackson shook his head. “We need to block the roads properly,” he said, cursing the mixture of parsimony and efficiency that prevented the Home Guard from really sabotaging the enemy’s line of advance. They could have cut down a few trees and slowed the ‘Germans’ down for as long as it took them to clear the roads again; just think what they could have done with the confusion! He’d seen enough exercises to know that even a tiny delay could, under the right circumstances, mount up into a complete disaster as supply lines got snarled up and enemy commanders became confused. “It’s just not an accurate portrayal of real war.”

  He tapped the location of the village on the map. “The aircraft bombed the village and destroyed it,” he continued, speaking with more firmness now. “Sir, that wouldn’t happen in real life; we could have continued to fight through the wreckage and held the Germans for a few hours, if they had been forced to clear the village step by step. We also would have shot back at the aircraft and maybe even forced them to keep their distance.”

  Colonel Felton-Smith nodded. “That’s not something that we can reproduce in an exercise,” he said, shortly. “Captain, overall, how did your company perform?”

  “They did much better than I think some expected,” Jackson said, pointedly. The regular army tended to look down on the Home Guard; Dad’s Army was one of the nicer nicknames for the service. “They don’t have the discipline of people who have served in the regulars for a few years, but they held the line here until well after I bit the dust.”

  “True enough,” Colonel Felton-Smith said. He held out a sheet of paper. “You and your company are being ordered to return to Felixstowe, where I believe most of your men come from, and continue basic drills until this exercise is concluded. Once it ends, I anticipate that there will be more drills, but most of your unit will return to inactive service.”

  Jackson nodded once; he had expected no less. The Home Guard, by its very nature, couldn’t be permanently deployed anywhere — particularly not outside the United Kingdom. The conscription program kept most of the young men trained, but the regulars could be deployed anywhere, and often were. If the Germans landed tomorrow — and that was the nightmare, with the Reich on the other side of the Channel — the main burden of the early fighting would fall on the Home Guard. They would fight and die to buy the regular army time to mobilise and be deployed.

  He threw a neat salute. “Yes, sir,” he said, as he stood to attention. “I’ll see to it at once.”

  * * *

  Night was falling as Gregory Davall slipped closer and closer to the barbed wire. Clad in dark clothes, his face blacked out like the Golliwog, he was almost invisible in the gloom. The sentry, whose cigarette light could be seen in the darkness, certainly never saw him. Davall smiled to himself as he crawled closer, keeping his belly firmly on the ground, just before he reached the wire and pulled out a pair of cutters. The sentry didn’t react at all, pacing slightly as he tried to keep himself awake; Davall silently cut a hole through the wire and slipped into the airbase.

  Idiot, he thought coldly, as he continued to crawl towards the aircraft hangers. The RAF had built the airbase to handle some of their long-range bombers. His task was to penetrate it, slip inside the base, and slip out again, all without being seen. The Grey Wolves would be depending on him to recover some information from the airbase, and if he were caught, he would be in very real trouble. On this exercise, he would probably get a clout from the sentry or whoever caught him. On an actual mission he would have been shot out of hand. The Grey Wolves, like every other stay-behind unit, would be considered illegal combatants and, as such, were not protected by the Geneva Convention.

  He slipped closer to his destination, avoiding a pair of patrolling guards with ease, and entered the hanger through an unsecured door. The sheer absence of real security made him grind his teeth together with rage. He was meant to be training for penetrating German bases, not exposing holes in British security. It had been seven years since the war had ended, but with the Reich across the Channel, anyone with a brain in their head knew that the resumption of hostilities was inevitable, sooner or later. Davall, a skilled toolmaker in a reserve occupation, had been exempted from conscription, but he had been recruited into the Grey Wolves. Unfortunately, ten years later, the secret soldiers were still maintaining their preparations. When Hitler came for them, they would be ready.

  The interior of the hanger was dimly lit. He closed his eyes to force them to adjust to the change before glancing over at the aircraft, an experimental jet-propelled aircraft that was supposed to be able to fly as far as America. Davall’s son had fallen in love with the RAF and had announced his intention to join as soon as he was old enough, but before then, he had collected dozens of aircraft models, including the ones designed to show off what the RAF could do. Davall had helped James to assemble the aircraft and knew their statistics off by heart; it made him wonder what James would have made of how easy it had been to slip into the base. If Davall had come on a sabotage mission, which he would have to do if the Germans ever came, he could have destroyed the aircraft before anyone could have stopped him.

  He scooped up a small set of papers from a desk, slipped them into his pocket, and withdrew the way he’d come. The sentry should have kept an eye on the wire, perhaps even patrolled it to find the gap, but Davall was able to retreat without any problems. It was only when he’d made it out and was walking back towards his operations base that he heard the outraged shouts behind him and pounding feet as guards were aroused to search for the intruder. It was too late, he knew, as he walked away through the forest; if they had wanted to catch him, they would have to improve the security. He’d take the papers to the coordinating officer tomorrow and hand them in, as well as making a report on the exact state of security on the base. If Davall had anything to say about it, heads would roll…

  The forest was warm and welcoming, although someone who was unfamiliar with the forest would have found it creepy; Davall found his way to the operations base with ease. Major General Colin Gubbins had hammered security into their heads; the Grey Wolves were the only people who knew where the base actually was in the forest. Even their coordinating officer, who knew all of them by name, didn’t know. He also didn’t know that the Grey Wolves had orders to assassinate him if the Germans landed.

  It was the work of a moment to clean himself, to change his dark clothes for something more fitting, and then to start the long walk back to his house. There was no longer any curfew over Suffolk, but he kept off the roads and streets anyway; tonight, the security forces would be out in force, hunting for the spy who’d broken into the airbase. He hoped, as he walked, that when the Germans came, it would be that easy to break into one of their compounds, but he knew, somehow, that it wouldn’t be anything like as easy. The Germans were very good soldiers and they had lots of experience in defeating stay-behind units. He knew his duty…

  But, deep inside, he was scared for the future.

  Chapter Two

  Berlin, Germany

  “Heil Hitler!” The cry burst out from a thousand throats. “Heil Hitler!”

  Standing on the balcony, Reichsführer-SS Heinrich Himmler watched as thousands of black-clad soldiers marched past, their faces all perfectly blank and disciplined. The massive parade had been going on for nearly an hour, with overflights by the latest and greatest aircraft of the Reich, and Himmler was more than a little tired of it. It was also something that even he, the second-most powerful man in Germany, couldn’t escape; it was Victory Day. The holiday that Adolph Hitler himself had decreed sacred, the day that Moscow had fallen to a combined assault from German forces, the day that marked the triumph of the Greater German Reich… Victory Day would be celebrated by Hitler’s people, body and soul. They had placed their faith in the Fuhrer and the Fuhrer had delivered; Germany was master of Europe, ruler of an empire that stretched as f
ar as the Urals and the Iranian border.

  Himmler glanced over at the Fuhrer, careful not to move too much; Hitler didn’t seem to notice. His health had been growing poorer for years, ever since the British agent — or at least Himmler had accused him of being a British agent - Theodor Morell had began poisoning him with experimental medical treatments. Himmler, loyal to Hitler personally, had finally worked with Goring to have the quack removed and quietly assassinated, but the damage had been done. The Fuehrer’s condition had been degenerating for years.

  A roar split the streets as the first Panzers appeared, advancing along the road and passing below the Führer’s balcony. The Panthers were the latest and greatest tanks created by Germany, each one built incorporating lessons from the war. Hitler truly believed that a division of Panthers could have defeated the entire Soviet Union without any further support. He might have been right, in a sense; the Panther was technically superior to anything the Soviets had deployed, but they had sheer numbers. If Moscow hadn’t fallen back in 1941… Himmler didn’t want to think about the possible outcome of the war.

  He composed himself as best as he could, watching as the latest Luftwaffe aircraft flew overhead; Goring cheering in delight and pointing out the latest types to Hitler, as if he hadn’t been removed from his position as head of the Luftwaffe years ago. As director of the resettlement project in the east, Goring was harmless, but not smart enough to realise that he was harmless. Himmler knew that Goring didn’t rate as a threat these days and ignored him. Apart from Hitler himself, there were only three men of any importance in Germany.

  As if the thought reminded him, he peered down and saw Field Marshal Albert Kesselring and Albert Speer standing and saluting as more Panzer units and infantry marched across the square. Speer — one of Hitler’s favourites — had become director of Germany’s industries… and even Himmler had to admit that he had worked wonders in preparing the Reich for war. His control over the economy was absolute, strong enough to bend all of Germany’s industrialists to his will, and his creation had given Germany the ability to finally reshape the continent to its will. Kesselring, growing older and perhaps stouter, was a more unusual candidate for high office, but as another of the Führer’s favourites, Kesselring had become the highest-ranking military officer in Germany… and, under Hitler, warlord. The old inter-service rivalries had been cut back, sharply under Kesselring. The only completely independent service was the Waffen-SS. The thought of what might happen if Kesselring decided to turn disloyal kept Himmler up at night…

  He had wondered if Hitler would give a speech, but as the final lines of the parade died away, it became obvious that the Fuhrer was in no condition to speak; his orderly slowly helped him off the balcony and down towards the conference room. Speer had designed the rebuilt Reichstag himself, but instead of giving it back to elected delegates, it had become Hitler’s headquarters and the centre of control over Germany. Himmler watched as the Führer’s back receded into the distance, and then he stepped down himself, just slowly enough to remind everyone that no business in the Third Reich could be conducted without his presence. He knew what Hitler was going to announce; he also knew that Speer and Kesselring knew as well. Who else knew what was coming?

  The conference room had been designed by Hitler personally, and it suited him. There was a single large chair, almost a throne, for Hitler himself and smaller chairs for his subordinates; their subordinates, in turn, would have to stand. One wall was completely covered by a map and Himmler paused long enough to take a look at it, reminding himself of just how far the Third Reich had come and just how far it had to go. Maps covering the pre-Hitler period were officially banned, but Himmler remembered a time when there had been many more states in Europe, before Hitler’s legions had wiped them all out of existence. In German classrooms, these days, students knew nothing about Poland, or Belgium, or Estonia; they had been wiped from history and wiped out on the ground. Himmler had overseen the population transfers personally.

  “There is one final piece of business to take care of before the end of this meeting,” Hitler said, his voice weaker than Himmler remembered, back in the glory days. He wasn’t like Goring, who remembered the days of beer and fighting with the Communists as a paradise, but now… it was sometimes hard to remember what they’d been. “It has been years since I rose to the this position of destiny and created the living space in the east for the Reich and the Volk.”

  He paused for breath. “We stand supreme everywhere, but only one country in Europe has defied us and held on to a refusal to recognise the mastery of the Volk,” he said, his voice growing louder. “When I offered the British peace on equal terms, they spurned me; they defied me and they defied the Volk! They betrayed their Aryan origins by siding with the Jewish-Bolshevik movement and sending them the weapons and equipment to continue the struggle! Even now, they refuse to bow their heads to Berlin and recognise that their destiny is to become part of the Reich and…”

  The ranting grew louder as Hitler continued. At one point, Himmler was worried; Hitler had always been an opportunist, taking advantage of his opponent’s weaknesses rather than having a master plan of his own, but he had always possessed the ability to judge clearly. His only real error had been in failing to anticipate that the British and the French would actually declare war after his forces invaded Poland; even after that, all of his gambles had come off and he was now the undisputed master of the continent. In all of Europe, there were only a handful of countries with any real independence, and all of them knew that their internal autonomy depended on Hitler’s goodwill, rather than any ability to defend themselves from attack. A man who was perfectly capable of launching two hundred divisions at any target wasn’t a man to irritate.

  “It is time to settle the account with Britain, once and for all,” Hitler thundered, and immediately sagged. “I have given orders to prepare for the launch of Operation Sunset at once, to be executed as soon as possible, with the goal of conquering Britain within a month. Once Britain has been defeated, we will be finally secure, ready to make preparations for the inevitable final struggle to determine the fate of the world.”

  There was a long pause. Finally, Kesselring nodded to Field Marshal Erich von Manstein, who stood up and picked up a pointer, indicating positions on the map. Manstein was another of the Führer’s favourites, a man whose planning had brought down France, Greece and Russia, as well as one of the most skilled strategists in the Reich. Manstein’s position was unchallengeable, as long as he continued to deliver victories.

  Manstein’s voice was both firmer and drier than the Führer’s voice. “The original plan for invading Britain was badly flawed,” he said, without particular irritation. Himmler remembered the days when Hitler had dithered over invading Britain and nodded; the plan had been improvised and almost certain to fail spectacularly. “The Wehrmacht and the other services have been working on a plan to invade Britain since 1943, but it wasn’t until recently that we had the fire-power and transport ability to carry it out with a reasonable chance of success. The plan, codenamed Operation Sunset, was first devised in 1947 and has been updated since then until today.”

  His pointer indicated Britain. “The British have three elements to their defence; the Royal Air Force, the Royal Navy, and their own Army,” he said. “They have smaller specialised units, like we do, but their military value is questionable. In order to land a major assault force on the British island, we have to get it through the first two enemy forces and then defeat the third on their soil. That is not going to be easy, but it can be done; in particular, we can secure control of the seas for long enough to ship a major army group over to Britain.

  “The British Navy, while larger than our own, has many more commitments than we have, including a major deployment into the Mediterranean and a second major deployment into the Far East watching our Japanese friends,” he continued. “That leaves them with their Home Fleet, deployed at Scapa Flow, and various smaller units scat
tered around the coast. The British battle fleet is composed of mainly older vessels, but if it came down to a direct battleship duel, they would have a serious advantage. We know that their plans call for immediately engaging the invasion convoys, so ours is to hit the Home Fleet first, from the air.”

  He grinned. “The British themselves launched an attack on our friends the Italians from the air,” he said. “A handful of elderly aircraft hit the Italian fleet hard enough to make them reluctant to risk combat in the future — not that that’s hard, of course.” There were some chuckles; the Italians had proven themselves such bad fighters that Himmler had wanted to declare them all subhuman, and only Hitler’s fondness for Mussolini had prevented the invasion and subjection of Italy. “The Luftwaffe deploys many more aircraft and has been armed with the latest in anti-ship weapons, providing us with a unique chance to destroy or damage as many of their ships as possible. If necessary, our five carriers will add to the chaos by sending in their own torpedo-bombers, but I hope that we will have crushed most of the enemy fleet in the opening strike.”

  “A point,” Generaladmiral Erich Raeder said, his voice darkening. He had birthed the Kriegsmarine and knew full well the odds it would face in a pitched battle. “How can you determine that the British will not detect the attacking bombers on their way?”

  “The flight will be flying low for most of the journey,” Manstein said. “We anticipate that they will have some warning, but by our most pessimistic estimate, they will only have enough time to get the antiaircraft defences manned and ready, rather than getting the fleet out of the port and out onto the open sea. Building steam takes time, after all. We will also have deployed a large force of submarines to the area; when the command is given, those submarines will engage every British ship they can find. The bombers will also be heavily escorted, although we anticipate that the RAF will have more pressing concerns.