The Invasion of 1950

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  He glanced down at his chronometer and blinked; had it really only been fifteen minutes since they’d started the attack? He found it impossible to believe; it felt as if he’d been drifting above the burning wonderland for hours, watching like a god from on high as the British base burned and their proud fleet was reduced to ruin. Some of the ships were clearly still moving, heading out towards the North Sea and the U-boats that awaited them out there. Some of the subs crept closer to the harbour, well aware that any ship they encountered would be British. The British fleet wouldn’t know what had hit them…

  His lips twitched. Actually, they’d know for certain what had hit them; they just wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.

  A flak burst only a few meters from his aircraft, reminded him that he was still in danger and he took the jet into a crash-dive, only levelling out bare metres above the water and flying low towards the burning ships. The water was full of British sailors, some of them panicking, others trying to salvage as much as they could, and he was tempted to machine gun them before remembering himself and the rules of war. The British weren’t monsters and would treat captured Germans decently, as long as the Germans treated British prisoners decently… and machine gunning helpless men wouldn’t improve the Reich’s reputation. Instead, he lifted the aircraft up, flew over a burning cruiser, and zoomed towards a small airfield on one of the islands.

  He grew tense as he selected his targets. The British had had a perfect harbour and anchorage for their fleet in the Orkneys, and they’d been working on it for years, developing it into their main fleet base. It hadn’t been defended very well, but if the British had had a proper warning, or a radar plane in the air, the battle might have gone the other way. He saw the hangers and fired his rockets. They had been designed for antitank operations, but instead, they would suffice for use on a hanger that might hold important aircraft. A series of explosions rewarded his efforts, and he yanked back on the stick, screaming back into the air as the hanger disintegrated below him. They must have stuck several armed bombers or submarine-hunting aircraft in the hangers. The British had an entire line of such aircraft, all of which would be useless in a dogfight. However, the U-boat crews would be glad to know that many of them had been destroyed.

  “Attention, we have enemy fighters coming in from the south,” the operator called. “All fighters, move to engage.”

  Schmidt checked his ammunition — he’d fired off nearly two-thirds of his cannon shells — and turned the aircraft around, taking a quick glance at his on-board radar as he raced towards the British aircraft. They were probably more Meteors, coming towards them with fresh pilots and full ammunition, and that meant that they would have an advantage. He did a quick roll call and discovered that his flight had lost seven aircraft, either to the British aircraft or their guns on the ground; it would have been worse if they hadn’t been trying to stop the bombers.

  “It’s time to take our leave,” the raid commander ordered, from the command aircraft. Schmidt had never liked that precaution, even though it ensured that the raid commander knew exactly what was going on. If the British had shot him down, there would have been a certain amount of confusion in the ranks. “Richthofen, engage the enemy fighters until the bombers have reached a safe distance.”

  “Jawohl,” Schmidt said, and threw his fighter forward. He felt tired, as if every part of him had been in a massive struggle, but at the same time, he felt elated at his success. The lead British plane snapped a burst of tracer off at him and he dodged it with ease before firing back himself and swinging into a full-on dogfight with the Meteor. Losses would be roughly even now, but the British had even less experience than his own people. Both sides would be learning on the job.

  The British pilot was good, he noted ruefully, flipping over himself and turning to engage him through a crazy series of loop-the-loops. He also had more ammunition. Every time he looked as if he might be able to hit Schmidt, he fired off a burst long enough to make Schmidt curse and dodge his fire, while Schmidt couldn’t fire back with such abandon because he had only limited ammunition of his own. Several of his pilots were retreating now, their ammunition drums empty; they’d be nothing less than sitting ducks for the British pilots. Finally, his opponent made one tiny mistake, and Schmidt stitched his cockpit with explosive bullets. The British aircraft exploded in mid-air

  “All fighters, break off and return to the rendezvous point,” the raid commander ordered. Schmidt glanced down at his displays automatically, taking in the limited fuel and knowing that if they didn’t reach the tankers, they’d be going down in the cold North Sea. “Leave the remaining British and retreat.”

  Schmidt didn’t bother to answer. He fired one last burst at a British aircraft, turned, and shot away. His aircraft was supposed to have a better acceleration rate than the British Meteor, and now he put it to the test as the remaining Richthofen fliers broke off and ran. The British gave chase over the burning dockyards, but eventually they broke off as they passed over the harbour limits and headed back towards their base. Schmidt allowed himself a sigh of relief; if the British had pushed after them and forced them into a dogfight, they would have burnt off too much of their fuel.

  He glanced back in the mirror as they settled into their course. Scapa Flow was burning behind them, explosions still showing up as flames reached ammunition dumps and unexpended ammunition down on the ground, wrecking the harbour still further. The British would be able to put out the fires quickly — they had the entire North Sea for water — but repairing all the damage would take years.

  It had been a good night’s work.

  * * *

  An hour later, Admiral Fraser stood up in a small motorboat, watching grimly as the crewman conning the boat took him on a long path around damaged ships and still-burning facilities on the shore, allowing him to make an inspection. Searchlights glared out, illuminating the scene, but he would have been happier not seeing anything at all. Here and there, the wreckage of a once-proud ship broke the waves, or the underside of a ship was clear to the eye, signalling a ship that had capsized and somehow failed to sink. Years ago, when Fraser had been a younger man, the Germans had scuttled their fleet in Scapa Flow; now, they’d wrecked a large chunk of the British Navy.

  He felt a tear in his eye as he stared at the wreckage of an aircraft carrier. It had been one of the older ones, serving valiantly during the last war, and perhaps the Germans had targeted it out of spite. A single bomb had blown it open and the wreckage was now scattered over the water. Another battleship had been run aground by her captain to prevent her from sinking, a precaution that Fraser couldn’t disagree with, even with the need to get as many of the ships out as possible.

  It was unbelievable; forty ships destroyed or seriously damaged, nine of them capital ships. Home Fleet no longer existed as an organised fighting force, and it would take weeks to organise the fleet into something that might be able to sail in the same direction without causing vast confusion. He had only one carrier and two battleships left, and that wasn’t enough to defeat the German fleet, particularly as most of the carrier’s aircraft had been destroyed on the ground. They could summon up reinforcements from the Fleet Air Arm base at Southampton, assuming that that base hadn’t been hit as well.

  He closed his eyes. He had just presided over the greatest naval defeat in British history… and he had a nasty feeling that worse was to come. The Germans wouldn’t have launched such an attack without intending to follow up on it, and that meant an invasion of Britain. The invasion might already be under-way… and his ability to do anything about it had been almost completely wiped out. The German invasion fleet might already be on its way…

  And, if they landed in Britain, they might be impossible to dislodge.

  Chapter Eleven

  Felixstowe, England

  Captain Harry Jackson was asleep when the alert started, but the noise of explosions and gunfire brought him out of his bunk faster than a cat chasing a mouse, o
ne hand grasping the pistol he kept by his bed and the other snatching up his torch. The clamour grew louder and somehow more disturbing. It took him a moment to realise that he was hearing German weapons, not British.

  Invasion, he thought, snapping awake. It couldn’t have been a drill, not under such circumstances; he yanked on his jacket — he’d slept in his uniform, a habit he’d picked up from the regular army — and ran down the stairs into the barracks, where the Sergeants were working to restore some order. He barked a quick order at Sergeant Wilt as he passed and ran outside, onto the small parade ground, to peer in the direction of the harbour. There were flames rising up from the Royal Navy base and the chatter of gunfire was getting louder.

  He spun around and ran back inside the building. “Have weapons and ammunition issued at once,” he barked to the Sergeants. “Send the staff officers down to the town to round up the others, now!”

  “Yes, sir,” Wilt said, passing him a rifle and a set of ammunition.

  Jackson took it and walked quickly into his own office. The din of fighting was becoming louder. He was required to carry out his duty step by step and that meant informing higher authority of the attack. He dialled the first number, a direct link to the local GHQ, and cursed as the line failed moments later. He went through the second number, then the third, and there was still no reply. The War Office was silent — or, he dared to allow himself to hope, the lines had been cut somewhere by German spies. He dialled a local number and sighed in relief when it was answered.

  “Father, I need you to sound the church bells at once,” he said, when the sleepy priest answered the telephone. He’d met the man before, when he’d taken up the command; he had seemed surprised at even the vaguest possibility of German invasion. The churches represented a vital part of the warning network. Once the church bells started to chime at night, the men on leave would know that they needed to report to the barracks. “Don’t argue; just do it!”

  He heard the aircraft overhead and was on the floor under the table before his mind quite caught up with his body. The aircraft had come in from the east, which made them German aircraft, and they might intend to bomb the barracks. The panic alone would kill hundreds; it had been seven years since British cities had been bombed from the air.

  The sound of aircraft faded slightly, to be replaced by the sound of explosions in the west. He abandoned the phone and ran down the stairs, back out onto the parade grounds. There were fires in the west now, spreading out, at a guess, near the railway lines. The Germans were aware that the British would use them to move their forces. They would have targeted them deliberately and that suggested to Jackson that the invasion force at the docks was the main invasion force, one that intended to hold the docks long enough for reinforcements to arrive. It was obvious how the trick had been done. The Germans had done the same when they’d invaded Norway.

  The scene was chaotic but showed signs of order as the Home Guardsmen attempted to line up, receive ammunition, and get into something reassembling order. Jackson felt a moment of despair, which he squashed ruthlessly under his duty and caught on to Sergeant Wilt as the sergeant worked to assemble the armoured cars. Other guardsmen were running in as they were awakened by the explosions and the church bells. It wouldn’t be long before civilians caught on and realised that they were at the heart of a war zone.

  “Get the first platoons out there and seal off the port,” he ordered. The port was isolated from Felixstowe itself by the fence, but he doubted that it would take the Germans more than a moment to break it down and attack the town itself. He would have preferred to dig into the town and hold it for as long as possible, but that would give the Germans a chance to reinforce and then expand out and surround the town. He raised his voice for a moment. “I want motorcycle riders, now!”

  Three of them, all younger soldiers, stepped forward. They looked achingly young to Jackson’s eyes. They had joined the Home Guard in lieu of being conscripted into the regular army, or had some problems that had prevented them from serving in the army. He saw fear in their eyes, but also a kind of grim determination; they wouldn’t break and run from the struggle. It was almost a shame that he needed them for something other than fighting.

  “I need the three of you to take your bikes and get to GHQ,” he said, thinking as fast as he could. “Inform the General that we have a German invasion on our hands and I intend to attack them as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, sir,” the senior soldier said. “Are there any other messages?”

  Jackson glanced over towards the glow surrounding the port. “Inform him that we need reinforcements as quickly as possible,” he said. “Take different routes, just in case of trouble; once you have delivered the message, attach yourself to his command and wait for orders. Dismissed!”

  He watched as they ran towards their bikes, recovering them and saluting before they roared off into the distance. Jackson hoped that one of them, at least, would reach the General; without regular army support, the Home Guard might be badly out-gunned He took a final look into the west, seeing the fires still burning, and walked quickly over to the gathered collection of soldiers. He knew most of them personally, others didn’t come from his Company; there was no sign of the Colonel.

  “I am assuming command as the Colonel hasn’t come to the barracks,” he said, remembering that his commanding officer had been intending to inspect the docks. He might be dead already. “Our task is to recover the port before the enemy can ship in reinforcements.”

  The soldiers spread out as they advanced towards the docks, the armoured cars taking point and heading towards the main gate, which were burning. There were no signs of enemy soldiers, but Jackson was sure that that would change quickly; if the Germans behaved as he had been briefed, they would have dug in and prepared to halt any counter-attack. Tanks were of limited use against such a dug-in position, but he would have sold his soul to get a few, and some heavier guns as well. The follow-up units would be bringing their heavy weapons, but he wanted some heavy artillery, maybe even air support.

  The first shots caught him by surprise and he fell to the ground quickly, hoping to avoid being shot as German fire crackled through the night. They were firing single shots, he realised, and they were being depressingly accurate; even in the semi-darkness, they’d hit several of his men. He’d heard of night-vision equipment, but the Germans seemed to have eyes like cats. Was their kit much better than the equipment that the Home Guard had been issued? The Guardsmen returned fire; after a moment, the armoured cars fired as well, hosing down the remains of the gates with machine gun fire.

  The infantry followed, using the armoured cars to shield themselves from enemy fire as the armoured cars ground up to the gates… and then the lead car exploded. Jackson saw men falling backwards under enemy fire as a second mine detonated, and then a third… and then a streak of light destroyed a fourth armoured car. The Germans had antitank rockets, he realised grimly, as his men scattered, aiming frantically at the location of the enemy holding the rocket-launcher. Sparks in the distance and a shout in German, barely audible under the noise of the firing, suggested that someone had killed the German soldier, but there would be hundreds more. How many could the Germans fit into one freighter?

  “Call up the heavy guns,” he ordered, as the first mortar round arced over the gates and fell down near his men, luckily missing them all. The Germans didn’t seem to notice. Their mortar teams kept firing the little shells over the gates, even as his own men threw grenades back into the German positions. Sergeant Wilt mounted a grenade on the end of his rifle and fired it over the gates, hitting something that exploded with disproportionate violence… and then the first German armoured car made its appearance.

  “Shit,” Jackson muttered, as it appeared through the smoke and darkness, launching a flare into the night. For a long moment, everyone was blinking tears out of their eyes and the firing paused before it resumed, stronger than ever. The Germans charged forwards under the cover
of the armoured car, crashing into his men and struggling with them for the position as the fighting got really out of control. It was becoming a melee and he knew just how dangerous those could be; Wilt hit the armoured car with a grenade and disabled it, but the Germans didn’t seem to be losing their enthusiasm for the fight.

  “Coming, sir,” Sergeant Boothroyd called, as the roar of a bulldozer appeared and the massive machine pushed into the rubble. Jackson smiled as the sergeant gunned the engine and started to push through the wreckage, before a German soldier came forward and attempted to throw a grenade right into the cab. He was gunned down before he could swing and the grenade exploded moments later, blowing whatever remained of his body to bloody ruin. A second later, a German antitank rocket, designed to burn through armour, struck the bulldozer and sent it up in flames, trapping the sergeant and killing him before he could escape.

  Jackson heard the noise of heavy guns behind him as the follow-up units established their positions and began firing into the docks, but they were effectively firing blind. They’d hit something, but what? The Germans didn’t seem to be alarmed at first, and then they changed their minds… and launched a sweeping counter-attack of their own against the guns. The Home Guard knew about the German proficiency at mounting such attacks on the spur of the moment, but how could they handle it in the semi-darkness? One of the gun crewmen fell and died as a sniper put a bullet through his chest; a second was hit moments after he fired a final shell on his own into the docks. The Germans were still coming towards them…