He spoke on for a moment, although he was speaking more to himself than to Molesworth. “They landed there to outflank us, but if we can break their supply lines, we can crush them under the sheer weight of fire-power,” he said. Molesworth said nothing, hardly daring to breath, as Churchill spoke. “If we can hold long enough, we will win.”
He cleared his throat. “I believe that you will get a medal for this,” he said, and winked in an uncle-like fashion. Molesworth felt himself flushing; Churchill was, very much, the person who would decide who got the medals and why. “Try not to get yourself killed before we can pin it on your chest and make a hero out of you.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Over Dover, England
“You have contacts directly ahead of you,” the controller on the radar plane warned. “Engage at will.”
Gruppenkommandeur Albrecht Schmidt drew a breath as the British planes materialised in front of him. The first days of the invasion had been chaos personified; the British had been scattered, with the Germans hunting vainly to locate and destroy them before they regrouped, but now the British had regained their balance and were fighting in a coordinated manner. Their aircraft had been pulled back to bases in the west, ensuring that they would have plenty of warning of a renewed bombing offensive now. Since then, they had been operating against the German formations that had been pounding their country.
Schmidt checked his cannons and his antitank rockets moments before they engaged. The RAF was actually secondary to their objective, which was to prevent the British from massing the forces required to crush the invasion lodgement. Any airman with real experience of the air knew that air superiority, if not air supremacy, was vital to any military operation.
Goring had failed to grasp that, and because of the Iron Fatty, the Luftwaffe had been denied the military honours of having played a vital role in the conquest of Britain years ago. That planned invasion had failed because of Goring’s vainglorious boasting… and it had cost the Luftwaffe its position in Hitler’s eyes. That alone had almost broken the air force, with some of their craft being given to the Kriegsmarine, and the Wehrmacht being given control over autogyros and some close-support aircraft. Now they were back. The success at Scapa Flow had pleased Hitler and now were compelled to defeat the British in the air.
The radar traces closed rapidly. The British aircraft had proven themselves to be doughty fighters and, of course, their survivors were gaining as much experience as the pilots of the Reich. The RAF had bombed several ports at night, but a combination of radar-guided aircraft and radar-guided guns on the ground had managed to keep them from damaging too much of the port in their attacks. He’d feared that they would concentrate everything on hammering the invasion lodgement. The chaos of the first few days had given way to cold professional organisation as the Germans and the British strove to reinforce and advance towards their targets.
Now, he thought, and gunned his engine. His fellow pilots didn’t need any more orders; whatever kinks there had been in the unit, they’d been worked out by days of heavy fighting. The British jet he’d chosen as his target fired back, sending a line of tracer directly towards him which he evaded with ease before firing back with his own cannons. The British pilot evaded and swooped down towards Schmidt’s aircraft, firing a secondary burst that narrowly missed. Schmidt sniffed and buckled down to some hard fighting. The British pilot was good, almost as good as he was, with a slightly inferior aircraft.
The roar of the engines grew louder as he banked and tried to draw a bead on the enemy fighter. The Brit didn’t react in time, and Schmidt was certain that he had him, but the Meteor flipped at the last possible moment and came right at him. Just for a second, Schmidt was sure that the two aircraft were going to smash into one another before the enemy pilot rolled into a dive. Schmidt pulled out and watched as the British aircraft lanced down towards the ground, just before it was too late, the plane levelled out and raced across the English countryside. Schmidt was tempted to dive after him and finish him while he was still stunned, but allowed him to leave; the Englishman had been a valiant foe and deserved a chance at survival.
A second British plane appeared out of nowhere, and Schmidt gave chase. HE watched as the British aircraft jinked to and fro to avoid his fire, before he finally clipped one of the jet engines with an explosive bullet. The plane tilted and spun out of control. Flames were flaring from one wing, and the pilot barely managed to eject in time. Standing orders were to shoot at any pilots who managed to escape via parachutes, but Schmidt and the remainder of the Luftwaffe pilots had quietly agreed to ignore those orders; the British would only have started shooting Luftwaffe pilots after they fell out of the sky.
War wasn’t a gentlemanly sport but in the air, one could at least pretend. They could allow themselves the delusion that they were engaged in a joust, free from the dead bodies and devastation caused by fighting on the ground.
He checked his radar and found, to his relief, that the sky was clear of British planes. “Independent flying,” he ordered, as he banked his aircraft and headed down towards the English countryside. It really was a beautiful place, he saw, as he levelled out and started hunting for targets; it was green and pleasant in a way that touched him deep inside. It was also deadly; the British had spent seven years getting the Dover region ready for the German landing they had anticipated. If the briefing was to be believed, the British had created a massive network of bunkers, fixed positions and guns, all dug in and tightly camouflaged against the day the Germans landed. The area was woven with canals and bridges… and all of them had been prepared, creating a death trap for German troops.
He shuddered as his eyes scanned the ground. If the German infantry were forced to clear it, step by step, the death rate would be terrifyingly high, high enough to make an SS man blanch. The British wouldn’t repeat the mistake of the French…
Except they had, in a way, when the enemy forces had landed at Felixstowe. The French defences had been outflanked, caught out of position, allowing Rommel and his fellow Generals to stick a knife deep into France’s heart. The British had been surprised when the Germans had landed at Felixstowe, but if they could gather their forces, they would have a very good chance of beating the Germans on the ground and therefore crushing the invasion. Schmidt was realistic enough to understand that the efforts of the Luftwaffe would count for nothing if the British won against the army. So the orders had been given to harass the British on the ground as much as possible.
He altered course slightly as he flew over a ruined airfield. The British airfield had been hammered from the air on the first day of the invasion, the bombers utilising new weapons that dug up the runways and knocked the airfield out of action; the remaining British aircraft, he guessed, had been withdrawn to the west. There was a recovery crew on the ground, and he fired a burst with his cannons into their vehicle, but it wasn’t worth the use of his rockets. Somewhere around, there must be a more suitable target…
There, he thought, as he saw the train moving down the railway line. It was elegant, in its way, a massive steam engine pulling a line of flat cars, each one holding a British Centurion tank. The British railways were nothing compared to the massive railways and rolling stock that Speer had designed for the Fuhrer, but they would be able to handle their task transporting the tanks to their front-line staging areas against the German forces on the ground. An anti-aircraft gun on the train was swinging around to take a bead on him, but it was too late; he’d already targeted his weapons.
Should have moved at night, he thought, as the first rockets roared away from his aircraft and smashed down onto the tanks. The rockets had been designed to punch through tank armour — it was weaker on the top than at the front of the vehicle — but even so, it was touch and go how much damage they would wreak under normal circumstances. As explosions ripped through the train, sending it heeling over and crashing onto the ground, he saw the entire line of carriages derail, smashing into the ground
with awesome force.
The locomotive exploded, and he saw flames racing through the troop sleepers. He yanked his aircraft away as a handful of British troops tried to shoot at him with their automatic weapons and swooped into the sky, leaving chaos behind him. There was no point in risking one of them making a lucky hit.
The remaining aircraft joined up with him as they fled for the safety of France as the British once again attempted to engage. He’d wrecked a train and damaged a railway line, something that would take the British a week to repair. By then, it might be too late.
“Time to go home,” he said, and led the way back to their new airbase. Once there, they would rest, rearm and then return, with plans for more destruction. The tempo of activity was actually surpassing that of any drill he’d ever taken part in. The pace of events was taking its toll on all of them. They’d scored big at Scapa Flow, but how long could they keep up their flight routines without making dreadful mistakes, maybe even collapsing under the pressure?
He shook his head as the blue sea replaced the land and the British aircraft broke off their chase. Their troubles weren’t that bad, compared to the British issues. He didn’t want to think about the people on the ground and how they must be feeling, knowing that their country was being invaded and they were powerless to prevent it.
* * *
“Fucking bastard,” Major Bloodnok exclaimed.
Alex DeRiemer said nothing as Bloodnok roundly cursed the German pilot, the German pilot’s presumed father, the German’s real father, his mother, and for good measure his brothers and sisters as well. Churchill had sent Alex to the coast to get a personal report as Churchill’s personal representative, but he hadn’t expected to be the target of a German bombing attack. It was naive of him, he supposed, but he hadn’t really understood the scale of German activity.
He forced himself to focus as Bloodnok turned to face him. “And now the Prime Minister wants a personal report,” Bloodnok complained. “What sort of report does he want?”
DeRiemer shrugged. Churchill was the sort of man who was either loved or hated, particularly in the armed forces and Bloodnok was one of the ones who hated him. Monty once told him that Churchill came up with twenty ideas a day, but only a handful of them were actually any good - and he wasn’t really able to tell the difference. Some of his ideas, with some capable staff work, had turned into excellent plans. Some of them, such as Gallipoli and the aborted Helgoland landing scheme, had turned into disasters.
“First things first,” he said. “How much danger is the defence line in from German bombers?”
Bloodnok shook his head. “There’s much less danger than you might think,” he said, almost cheerfully. The first line of defence for the British nation was dug into the rocks and cliffs surrounding Dover, running from the famed White Cliffs down towards Brighton, and it was almost impossible to see from the air. “The majority of our positions are so well dug in that even a direct hit will fail to move them, unless the Germans manage to hit them with one of their new bunker-killing bombs, but their accuracy with those is terrible.”
He laughed. “They took out radar installations and radio transmitters from the air, but they’re much less good at actually hitting a silent target, particularly one that is almost invisible from the air and requires a direct hit to kill,” he said. A line of explosions, in the distance, underlined his words. “They tried to dive bomb the complex up before Dover Castle, but we shot down the aircraft and they decided not to do that again.
His laugh grew darker. “The aircraft didn’t even manage to crash on the target.”
“Good,” DeRiemer said, after a moment. “Are there any problems?”
“They’re wearing down the men,” Bloodnok said, shortly. “The bombing and shelling doesn’t really do much damage to the bunkers, but the constant noise is having an effect on my men and the damage to our rear is growing annoying. We built up the transport network so that we could rush reinforcements into any threatened area, but the Germans are causing so much damage that our ability to reinforce is seriously hampered.”
He shook his head. “The Germans would be insane to try a landing here,” he said. “I have almost twenty thousand men, dug in and prepared to engage any landing force, and I have the guns to hit anything out in the Channel. They could send their battleships here to duel with us — hell, I’m hoping they will do just that — and we will sink them before they can wreck the defences.”
DeRiemer nodded. “And morale?”
“The men, like I said, are feeling the strain, but they want to come to grips with the foe,” Bloodnok said. “The War Office has already earmarked half of my reinforcements for the journey north to the defence lines, but there are others here who want to make the trip and join the fight. I have actually considered pulling some of them out of the defence lines and replacing them with reserve forces, but I know so little, day to day, about what’s happening that I cannot really make any preparations.”
“I’ll inform the Prime Minister,” DeRiemer promised. His eyes narrowed. “Do you believe that the Germans could land here?”
“They could land, but they wouldn’t get very far,” Bloodnok said. “Back in 1940, they would have faced awesome problems in landing, and now the defences are much, much more powerful than they ever were then. We’ve drilled endlessly under the worst possible conditions, giving the Germans every possible advantage, and the best they do is overwhelm the first defence line before being wiped out by the reinforcements.”
“Interesting,” DeRiemer said. He grimaced. The intelligence reports didn’t seem to quite match up to reality, which wasn’t unusual. “Do you believe that the Germans know that?”
Bloodnok gave him a reproachful look. “The Germans have some idea about the defences here,” he said, after a moment. “They may not know the exact details, but they have had ample opportunity to count some of the defences, so… I think they have a good idea what they’d be facing if they tried to land here. I don’t think that they could hope to soften us up enough to prevent us from stopping them landing, and… well, we’ll slaughter them like sheep. The defences here are the strongest in the world.”
“Thank you,” DeRiemer said, standing up. The ground shook for a moment as a German bomber unloaded its bombs somewhere in the distance. “The Prime Minister will be very pleased to hear that.”
“Of course,” Bloodnok said. He tapped the map — his finger touching an area shaded in red ink — and looked over at DeRiemer. “I think that the main angle of threat remains Felixstowe, unless you know differently…?”
“Intelligence suggests that the Germans have been preparing a secondary invasion to hit here,” DeRiemer said, “hence Churchill’s request for a personal inspection.”
“They’re out of their minds,” Bloodnok said. The confidence in his voice made DeRiemer smile; he hoped it wasn’t misplaced. “If they came here, it would be nothing, but a bloody slaughter.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Berlin, Germany
The Fuhrer was in a good mood. When the Fuhrer was happy, so was everyone else in his cabinet, sharing the faith that the Fuhrer wouldn’t have one of his fits or start ordering impossible military operations. Adolph Hitler might be growing older and weaker in front of them, but he still maintained a presence. He was still the absolute leader of Germany. Himmler caught the eyes of Speer for a moment and wondered what treatments were being used on the Fuhrer; he looked almost normal, save for the unkempt hair. Hitler’s survival was a concern of all three of the main power-brokers; none of them knew what would happen when the Fuhrer finally shuffled off his mortal coil.
“We have finally broken the power of the British Empire,” Hitler proclaimed as he waved one hand at the massive map of the occupied region of the British homeland. It had been blown up enough that Himmler, in a rare moment of whimsy, had wondered if the scale was actually one-to-one. The landing forces might have managed to prevent the British from trapping and crushing the lo
dgement, but they were far from having completely defeated the British. “This nation of shopkeepers and imperialists will be broken for all time!”
His voice rose higher. “I offered the British a fair and just peace, and they threw it back into my face,” he thundered. “I offered them peace and freedom within the New Order, and they rejected it. I offered them their crumbling empire, even the lands that rightfully belong to Germany, and yet… they refused me! The arch-imperialist Churchill has returned to power… and why was he not killed when Otto attacked London?”
His gaze swept around to focus on Himmler. “Why was Churchill allowed to remain alive?”
Himmler forced himself to think, ignoring the cold sweat that was forming on the back of his neck. Hitler loved Skorzeny; he thrilled to his antics as much as any young boy, reading SS Commando or one of the other glossy publications churned out by Goebbels, and any aspersions that Himmler might cast on Skorzeny’s character might not go unpunished. If he said the wrong thing, his career and his ascent to the post of Fuhrer might fall into doubt…
He couldn’t tolerate that. “Churchill wasn’t in Ten Downing Street at the time of the assault,” he said, silently cursing Hitler’s monomaniacal belief that Churchill had inhabited the centre of British power even after losing office. Atlee hadn’t impressed Hitler at all, and so it was easy for the Fuhrer to believe that Churchill had always been the secret power behind the throne, whatever was said in public. “He avoided the first assault for that reason, but the second assault will not fail.”
Hitler leaned forwards, his eyes glowing with a chilling degree of interest. “A second assault against the war criminal?”
Himmler nodded. “I have managed to discover, though my sources, that Otto remains alive in London and has gone to ground, in accordance with my plan,” he said. It was irritating, in a way, as Philby now knew the truth about who he’d been working for ever since Moscow had fallen. It allowed the SS to ask him more direct questions, but at the same time, it introduced a new and dangerous equation into play. Philby had followed communism with the dedication of a religious convert; what would he do now that he knew that he hadn’t been working for Moscow after all? “In fact, six men survived and possess the weapons to take out any target within London.”
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