He broke off as there was an answer.
“I need a quick-reaction group at Handyman Hall, now,” he ordered and put the phone down before the person on the other end of the line could argue with him. There were several infantry divisions nearby, and they could spare a few companies of soldiers and armoured fighting vehicles to help free the General from the Germans. “Get the men in here and have the others warned to watch for them trying to burst in…”
A spray of bullets came through the window and he cursed, lifting his own rifle and firing back. The other men ran into the room, and he quickly deployed them in positions that would allow them to hit the attackers while hopefully not being hit themselves, although he was worrying about ricocheting bullets. The Germans pushed again and were flung back. He felt the air beginning to fill with smoke and frowned darkly. If the Germans decided to encourage the fire to spread into the house, if it hadn’t already, it would make their life hell.
“Grenades,” one of the soldiers shouted. Jackson was on the ground before he knew what he’d heard, shielded by a concrete block as the grenades detonated. The shock-wave and the rapid change in air pressure stung at his ears, but he pulled himself to his feet as the Germans tried to break in again, only to be met by strong fire. He saw a nozzle entering the room and, for a moment, he didn’t understand, just before the German flame-thrower ignited and sent a trail of fire into the room. The heat kept rising until it was almost unbearable.
“Fall back,” he ordered, hoping that their relief would come soon. Had the General made it to the secondary command post? There was no way to know; all he could do was hold out as long as possible.
Inch by bloody inch, the Germans pushed them back, hammering them with grenades and the flame-thrower until it was disabled by a British grenade. Somehow they held until the first armoured fighting vehicle arrived. The Germans retreated as soon as they saw it, leaving several dozen bodies behind… and a wrecked command post.
“Bastards,” Jackson commented. Wilt had survived, much to his relief; he’d been trapped with another group of soldiers. He glanced up towards the north. The thunder of combat was only growing louder. The bangs and flashes, also, were growing closer.
The battle was far from over.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Near Colchester, England
“Panzer March!”
Hauptmann Johann Bothe felt his Panzer shake once and then rumble forward, heading directly south — and London. He’d been told that they would be avoiding British habitations and merely concentrating on stabbing deep into the British rear area but knew better than to expect perfect success. The British would be doing everything in their power to destroy him and the rest of 7th Panzer, and he was determined that they would not succeed. He would sooner die rather than fail Rommel.
The panzer slowly nosed forward, picking up speed and heading directly towards a weak point in the British lines. Even through his earphones, he could hear the noise of the bombardment and the shrieks of the rockets as they passed overhead. The British were firing back with their own weapons, but most of their fire was trying to suppress the German barrage, which meant that they weren’t trying to impede the Panzers.
That would change as soon as the British realised that 7th Panzer — and Das Reich, several miles to the west — were the spearheads of the main offensive. They would call down everything they could on the Germans, just to prevent them from punching through their lines. There was nothing like a Panzer division to focus the mind on stopping it at all costs.
The battlefield was illuminated by the mixture of flares in the sky and flames on the ground as they nosed onwards into British territory. They were pressing right down the side of a road, heading into British lines, and it would be bare moments before the British realised what they were doing and worked to counter it. The reconnaissance photos had revealed that the British had a smaller set of trenches ahead of them, one of the lines that was intended to serve as more of a tripwire than as a serious defence, and if they could punch through it, they would be in the rear before the British could react. The noise of explosions grew louder as they flooded forwards, watching for trouble…
Ping!
Bothe grimaced and ducked down into his cabin as a sniper’s bullet bounced off the Panzer’s armour. The view was much more restricted from inside the Panzer, but there was no point in allowing a British sniper to have a free shot at his head. The noise was fading as the German bombardment dispersed, striking further into the British rear to avoid any possibility of accidentally hitting their own forces. He hoped that the British forces blocking their way would have been killed, or broken, but he knew better than to expect that. Time and time again in modern war, a bombardment that appeared all-crushing failed to kill more than a handful of soldiers or done nothing more than torn up the ground.
“There,” the driver crowed. Bothe peered through his own viewing port to see the British lines ahead. The panzer lunged forward as the driver gunned the engine and led the charge into the British position, the main gun booming out in the confined space as the gunner fired an anti-personnel round into the British. Explosions raked the length of the trench as the panzers punched through. One of the German vehicles seeming to leap right over the trench, and the handful of British guns went wild. Bothe saw, out of the corner of his eye, a British soldier taking aim at them with an antitank gun, only to miss them by a few millimetres.
It was easy to see what the British had done; they’d dug in a set of antitank guns and were now shooting at the panzers as they fell back, unable to charge the British position directly. Bothe would have bet his next leave in Germany that some thoughtful British commander had mined the area in front of the British guns as well, just in case the Germans did try to charge them.
He barked orders into his radio and watched the panzers spread out while German shells rained down on the British positions. Rommel had placed 7th Panzer’s own supporting artillery under the command of the spearheads and as the guns began firing, the British ducked for cover. They probably wouldn’t be actually harmed by the shells — although the Germans might get lucky and hit an ammunition dump or something else explosive — but it would force them to cover their bodies while the panzers moved.
They’d practised before in the training centres. Five panzers went around the British guns one way, five went the other way, while infantrymen came up in support and attacked from the front. Caught between several attacks, the British fought and tried to hold the position, but it was impossible. After what felt like hours, the remainder of the British positions surrendered.
Bothe didn’t wait around for orders; the panzers advanced again, charging down the road towards the next set of British defences. British shells were starting to splash down around them, but only one of the panzers was hit and destroyed; Bothe ignored the loss and they kept moving, hunting for targets. Their overall objective was to cut a series of roads and prevent the British from reinforcing their positions, but that wasn’t going to be easy. The British would be determined to stop them.
“Aircraft,” the driver shouted as the tank heeled madly to one side. The British aircraft, a ground-attack propeller aircraft dating from the last war, came right at them, launching rockets towards the German panzer column. The bright flares of the rockets almost blinded Bothe for a moment; when he recovered, three more panzers had been hit and disabled. The British rockets hadn’t been enough to actually kill the panzers, but the disabled panzers were effectively useless unless the British came within range of its guns. The mechanics would be able to repair or cannibalise them for parts, but Bothe couldn’t afford to wait for them. The panzers must keep moving.
He listened briefly to the radio, switching back to the general channel and trying to pick up an overall idea of what was going on. The sun rose slowly in the sky, revealing scenes of untold devastation and heavy fighting with smoke rising all around them, but it was impossible to get any idea of just what was happening as the battle disintegrated into a
melee. Das Reich was apparently having success at punching through their section of the British lines, but the infantrymen who were supposed to be exploiting the victory were being stalled by vigorous British fire and carefully-prepared traps.
The RAF and the Luftwaffe were fighting it out desperately for control of the skies, but he’d already seen one aircraft attacking them, which suggested that the Luftwaffe wasn’t really in control of the skies. He hoped he was wrong, but as they punched closer and closer to British airfields, the weight of British attacks would only grow.
“Tank,” the driver reported, calling his attention back to the fighting. Bothe cursed under his breath as he saw the British tanks, just out of range but spoiling for a fight. The British tanks looked different from the German panzers, bulkier and seemingly tougher, but they weren’t superior to the German panzers. The Panther had had dozens of little problems at first, but as it was improved and lessons from the Russian campaign incorporated into its design, it had become the finest tank in the world. They were about to face the British tanks directly.
“Take us at them,” he ordered, knowing that escaping engagement wasn’t possible. The British tanks were determined to blunt 7th Panzer or die trying. They were aiming themselves directly at his force, charging at them with astonishing closing speed. The Panzers spread out as they sped up themselves, hoping to punch through their opponents and charge right into their rear. “Fire!”
The main gun barked. The British tanks opened fire at the same moment. The intensity of the fighting was staggering. A British tank exploded, a second one fired at one of his tanks, and then exploded as a German shell punched through their armour and detonated. The hatches on a disabled British tank burst open, allowing its crew to escape. He hoped that they made it and survived the battle. The two forces lashed through one another, tanks hacking away as they kept moving. A British tank loomed in front of Bothe’s panzer and only some quick thinking on the part of the driver kept them from ramming the British tank directly. The battle seemed to go on and on…
And then they were free, charging onwards towards the British rear. Bothe risked it; he stuck his head out of the hatch and peered behind him, seeing the British tanks engaging the German infantrymen and hopefully coming off worst while a line of panzers followed him directly towards the British guns. Seven panzers had been lost or disabled in the brief savage fight, but the survivors punched through and survived the experience. 7th Panzer was now in the enemy rear… and cutting off their line of retreat.
“Signal HQ,” he ordered, as the panzers spread out. They would need refuelling and reloading soon, and the British probably wouldn’t be kind enough to leave them any fuel to use. The French had done that, several times, back in 1940, but the British had had weeks to prepare their defences and years to plan their procedures. The roads were right ahead of them and the panzers headed towards them. “We have secured objective one and require resupply.”
All around them, the battle raged.
* * *
Gunner Spike Milligan, formerly of the British Army and now part of the Home Guard, peered through his binoculars as the German panzers received their resupplying convoys. They were just out of range for his weapons, intended to prevent the Germans from making a tank charge towards the depot, but the sight of them almost drove him to tears. Milligan wasn’t fond of the British Government, regarding both Atlee and Churchill as unbearably pompous, but surely even they could have prevented a German invasion. Or maybe not; the only lesson Milligan had brought home from the war in the desert was that the British Army was composed of lions, even including the reluctant Milligan, but led by donkeys.
He glowered as the Germans fanned out. The tanks should have been able to assault the Germans infantry and drive them back from the roads, but instead they had been sent onwards to engage the German panzers directly, something that almost made him wonder if there was treachery somewhere in the ranks. Milligan had spent a year in a German POW camp before the end of the last war, and the exchange, and had seen how British officers got on with their German counterparts, leaving the enlisted men while they spent time with their new friends. It wouldn’t have surprised him to learn that they had all gone to the same schools, or maybe were all related at some level; certainly, they had all united against the lower orders.
Had one of the generals, someone friendly to Germany, sold them out? He would have believed it of Percival, but Percival, at least, had been disgraced and stripped of his rank before the Churchill Government had left office. The Australians had wanted his scalp, and Churchill had given it to them.
“Harry, take aim,” he ordered as the panzers swept forwards. Harry Secombe was larger than any Home Guardsman should have been, but, as a reservist, no one had been checking up on his weight and general health. Milligan had been known to remark how empty the room was without him, but he respected Secombe, who was at least trustworthy. Milligan suspected that the entire unit had been left here to die. “Fire as soon as they come into range.”
The German panzers took on shape and form faster than he had imagined, but the gunners prepared with the calm competence they had developed in endless drills ever since the call-up to war. Milligan had seriously considered refusing to report for duty, but it was his country, and no matter how bad the toffs at the top were, they were much better than the Germans. Milligan had tried to spread the word about what the Germans were doing to the people of Occupied Europe, but the BBC had often refused to broadcast such material, apparently on the grounds that it would upset the Germans. Milligan had been disgusted. It was a lack of moral courage that had allowed Hitler to remain unchallenged until it was far too late…
“Fire,” he barked. The gun shook once and fired an antitank shell right into the teeth of the German panzer. He worried, for a moment, that the shell wouldn’t be enough and that the German would somehow survive — that had been a problem in the last war - but the shell worked perfectly and the German panzers exploded into a fireball. The other guns fired as well, hitting the other German panzers and knocking out three of them, before sending one of them flying through the air, crashing down onto the ground. Milligan didn’t know how that had happened, but as the Germans fled their tank, the machine guns cut them down with brutal efficiency. “Reload and…”
Something struck him right through the chest; a burning pain that sent him reeling backwards. He hit the ground without any awareness of the fall, his hand clutching at the wound on his chest, as the burning grew worse and darkness reached out for him. He thought he saw ghosts — an incredibly fat man, a suave distinguished man, a British officer, a boy scout and others — before the burning finally grew too strong. The darkness reached out for him again and this time, he could no longer resist.
* * *
The British defence collapsed under the weight of German fire-power, and the panzers charged through, one of them crushing a British soldier under the treads as the man attempted to take aim with an antitank weapon. Bothe didn’t spare a thought for the British soldiers as the panzers spread out, driving towards the vast concentrations of British men and material they’d seen on the reconnaissance photos. The British were preparing to mount a counter-attack The panzers had to delay them long enough to allow the infantrymen to come forward and consolidate their gains.
More explosions billowed up farther down the line as the British called in their own artillery. The panzers pushed on, knowing that the odds were in their favour, leaving another pair of unlucky panzers behind. They wouldn’t be recoverable, Bothe suspected, and their crews would have been killed instantly, if they were lucky. If they had somehow survived the shell and the explosion, they would have been seriously wounded and condemned to life as shadows of their former selves. They would be lucky to survive, even if they were allowed to survive; he’d heard dire rumours about what the SS sometimes did to people who were wounded without any hope of recovery.
German rockets flashed overhead and the panzers followed them, seeing th
e explosions as the rockets tore into British support areas. They weren’t very accurate, but the British had accidentally presented them with a target-rich environment. Almost every rocket was guaranteed a hit on something. The British would be trying to retreat to new lines, but the rockets would be tearing them apart and the panzers would complete the job. He saw the burning wreckage, a monumental tangle of tanks, trucks and weapons, and smiled as the panzers charged forwards again. The British could surrender or they could die.
A British tank loomed up out of nowhere and fired directly at one of the panzers. The gunner was already tracking it and fired as soon as Bothe barked the command. The shell missed the intended target, striking one of the British trucks, but another of the panzers destroyed the British tank. Bothe shook his head ruefully, understanding the gunner’s muttered curse. Their reputation for accuracy had just taken a major blow.
“I expect better next time,” he said, as the British force retreated. A handful of them were surrendering, but the others were either running or had been badly injured when the rockets attacked. It was something that few politicians ever saw in their lives; the wreckage and ruined lives left behind by war. Hitler had served in the trenches and fought in the war; how had he decided to embrace war?
He shook his head. It didn’t matter at the moment. All that mattered was winning.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Over Colchester, England
“Sir, we have five major inbound raids,” Lieutenant Norah Fairhurst said. The cabin of the Lancaster airborne radar plane grew tense as she spoke. “There are upwards of seven hundred German aircraft moving out over the battlefield.”
“Show me,” the Group Commander said. Norah could smell his cigar smoke as he bent over her shoulder and peered down at the screen. “Shit… I mean…”
The Invasion of 1950 Page 33
