The Invasion of 1950

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  The radio was in his hands before he even knew what he was doing. “Snipers, start killing them,” he ordered. A pair of Germans fell. The others threw themselves to the ground and crawled forward while a set of German snipers engaged in a deadly duel with his own snipers. The Germans were advancing as swiftly as they could, but as they came closer, his men shot at them, their weapons forcing the Germans to keep their distance. The Germans threw grenades at the British position while they slipped closer; Jackson gave the order to fix bayonets as the Germans advanced…

  And then there was no time left at all for anything but killing.

  * * *

  The British horse was a complete surprise. the Panzer, charging across British fields in a desperate attempt to outflank their defences, crashed into the animal before they even knew that it was there. Hauptmann Johann Bothe was more affected by the death of the horse — it had been a magnificent chestnut beast — than he was by the deaths of hundreds of British and German servicemen. The horse hadn’t deserved to die. He had no idea what it was even doing there. Maybe it belonged to some British General or some British aristocrat who hadn’t believed in the German threat. There had certainly been people like that in France. Some of them had even ended up as the Nazi Regime’s most useful collaborators.

  He dismissed the thought and concentrated on driving forwards, smashing across the fields and small streams towards the bridges. The British would have rigged the bridges to blow, they had to drive the British away from them, in hopes that German engineers could be used to disable the charges before they were detonated. If not, they would have to establish bridges under fire. It was something they had trained endlessly to do. 7th Panzer was spread out, it’s units attempting to watch out for British aircraft like the handful of irritating ground-attack aircraft that had buzzed them yesterday, and it was making good progress… when one of the Panzers exploded.

  “Load antitank round,” he barked, as the first British tank appeared. British shells were landing all around the panzers, and it was starting to look like a planned ambush. “Fire!”

  The British tank exploded with a gout of fire, but three more Panzers were hit, revealing the presence of a series of dug-in British guns, firing down at them from a knoll. Bothe barked orders and the panzers spread out, trying to avoid the British fire. None of them would have been so stupid as to charge right into the teeth of British artillery. The British themselves had taken a long time to learn that lesson. 7th Panzer, always operating at the sharp end, learned it very quickly.

  “Call up air support and paste those guns,” he ordered, watching as three of his panzers poured high-explosive shells into the British field guns. They might get lucky and knock out the guns, but only a fool would rely on luck. They’d also moved outside the range of most of their supporting artillery. “I want that position knocked out and…”

  “Tank,” the driver reported. Bothe’s head snapped round to see a British tank, and then another, and another, advancing rapidly towards them from the west. The panzer’s turret began to spin round, drawing a bead on the British armour, as he realised that they had stumbled right into the British counter-attack The advancing Centurions looked determined to punch right through the lead elements of 7th Panzer and they might just succeed…

  “Fire,” he barked and had the satisfaction of seeing a British tank explode. Their shell had punched right through the frontal armour and detonated inside the tank, igniting the ammunition and sending the tank up like a firecracker. “Reload with antitank round and…”

  The interior of the panzer grew very warm for a heartbeat, and time stood still before the panzer exploded as a British tank scored a direct hit on the prow of the vehicle. Bothe died without knowing what had hit him.

  * * *

  The men of the 1st Armoured Division were, in their way, as loyal to Montgomery as the men of the 7th Panzer were to Rommel. Monty had built up the unit from the desperately dangerous days of 1940 to the powerful and capable fighting force it was in 1950, and they would follow him anywhere. Most of them had wondered why they were being held in reserve, but as they were moved into position, it became clear. They had been placed aside for Monty’s master-stroke, a direct armoured attack into the flanks of 7th Panzer. They rumbled on until they made contact and then opened fire, relying on their own self-propelled guns to provide covering fire, punching a hole right into the German positions.

  High overhead, almost every aircraft left in the British inventory flew cover, driving away the German fighters and ground-attack aircraft. For the first time since the invasion had begun, the British enjoyed air superiority over a major portion of the battlefield. That advantage rapidly translated into success on the ground as the Germans scrambled to respond to the new and shocking threat.

  * * *

  Jackson ducked as a hail of German bullets splashed into the wall behind him, then sprayed a quick burst towards the oncoming Germans. The British had fought hard, but the Germans had managed to drive them out of the first trench and then out of the second trench, fighting with them down the middle of the village. The British lines were contracting rapidly as both sides bled, but the Germans seemed to have unlimited reinforcements while Jackson only had the five hundred men in the village. He was also now in command. The Colonel had been shot by a German sniper an hour into the engagement, leaving the British more determined to fight on than ever.

  The whine of shellfire echoed out again, and he dropped down into the trench. The Germans had shelled them from time to time, using it in expert tandem with their advancing infantry, forcing the British back. He didn’t realise that the explosions had somehow failed to happen until several minutes after his instincts told them that they should have detonated, and he peered out of the trench. The appearance of the German lines was in chaos; had they somehow bombed themselves? In such close quarters, he wouldn’t have been surprised.

  ”Sir,” Wilt called from his position. His voice was breaking with excitement and relief, the normally controlled sergeant gave vent to his emotions. “Tanks!”

  Jackson didn’t understand at first. The Germans had tried a second panzer rush, but that had been stopped dead by his people; they wouldn’t repeat a failed tactic, would they? That would be unlike them. He glanced in the direction of the Germans, expecting to see advancing panzers, and saw, instead, German infantry beating a retreat. He glanced around, puzzled, and saw the mighty force of advancing British tanks, charging directly at the Germans and scattering them. His men were cheering and he joined them; whatever else had happened, the Germans had just been knocked back on their heels. Even the sight of an exploding tank, hit by a Panzerfaust, failed to destroy his relief; the tanks had saved them and secured the road for the British!

  * * *

  The image on the map told it all; the British armoured force had struck deep into the heart of 7th Panzer, bringing the Germans to a halt amid a confused battle that raged back and forth with no clear front-line, or indeed a clear winner. The British defences hadn’t broken at the new points of contact. Instead, they were working to pin down 7th Panzer while the supply lines were torn apart and the Centurions ripped through the infantry. 7th Panzer wasn’t used to defeat, and indeed they might still be able to win the battle, but only in a sense that would ruin the overall invasion.

  Oberst Frank-Michael Baeck looked over at Rommel. Did he know that?

  “Fall back,” Rommel sighed, finally. He wasn’t used to defeat either, but the fighting in North Africa had see-sawed back and forth before he’d finally been able to punch through the British defences and race to Cairo. “I want the infantry to remain in place and bleed the British if they attempt to leave the cities or advance too far forward. I want the panzers to mass again behind the front lines and prepare to cut off any British force that comes too far forward.”

  His eyes met Baeck’s eyes. Surprisingly, he smiled.

  “This isn’t defeat,” he stated after a moment. “Their lines have been hammered
and we have trapped many thousands of their soldiers in their fortress cities where they can do us little harm. We are in position to launch a second offensive, and the British don’t have the resources to launch an offensive of their own. This is not defeat, Frank, this is the beginning of victory.”

  Baeck looked down at the map and hoped that Rommel was right.

  It just sounded like bravado to him.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Berlin, Germany

  The Fuhrer was not happy.

  Himmler kept his head down and watched as Hitler worked himself up into a rage. The Führer’s rages had been coming more and more frequently over the past few years — he could move rapidly from a thoughtful cultured man to a screaming child throwing a temper tantrum — but it was rare to see him so persistently angry. The SS doctors employed specifically to monitor the Führer’s health had warned that the Führer’s mind was stronger than his body, but his body was on the verge of breaking down completely. Hitler should, by rights, have been removed to somewhere where he could spend his last few years in peace, but Himmler, staring at him, found it impossible to countenance such a suggestion.

  He looked at the small man to whom he’d given his loyalty and wondered, again, what would happen when Hitler died. By Himmler’s own estimate, made privately and kept solely in the confines of his own head, the Fuhrer had less than two years before his heart gave out or some other part of his body failed. Himmler had no wish to speed Hitler’s end — he loved and respected Hitler too much to even consider hurting him, let alone killing him — but it pained him, seeing the man who was responsible for so much being brought down by his own body.

  He would have healed Hitler in an instant if he had the power, but not even the most gruesome experiments in the concentration camps had yielded a medicine or procedure that would save Hitler’s life. The SS doctors had worked with a total absence of medical ethics and created all manner of miracles, from transplants to the perfect contraception, used to prevent the sub-humans from breeding, but they hadn’t found anything that could be used for Hitler. He might see the next year, but Himmler suspected that it wouldn’t be long before Hitler finally passed away. When that happened….

  “Treachery at the highest levels,” Hitler thundered, spittle flying from his mouth. Himmler watched with growing concern; he had seen Hitler fake a rage before, but this one was distressingly real. “Who is to blame for our defeat?”

  Field Marshal Erich von Manstein spoke before Himmler could inject anything. This was a more important matter than anything else, even though he wanted to see the Army humbled; he didn’t want that to happen at the expense of overall victory. Britain would belong to Germany.

  “Mein Fuhrer, the British were able to stop one of our pincers and prevent it from stabbing deep into their vitals,” he said grimly. He might have been one of Hitler’s favourites, but the bearer of bad news was never popular at Hitler’s court. Hitler might order him stripped of his rank and exiled at any moment. “That was nothing more than a local victory, one that Rommel was rapidly able to turn to his advantage and use to convince the British that further attacks were a bad idea.”

  So that’s the party line, is it? Himmler thought with unintentional irony. The explanation, so vague as to be almost useless, wouldn’t have made sense to anyone, but at least it sounded encouraging. Himmler had had one of the Waffen-SS officers make a personal report from Das Reich to him, and that report had been much less encouraging. The British had stopped 7th Panzer dead in its tracks and hammered it hard enough to almost break it. That would have been good news under other circumstances — it would embarrass the Army, therefore giving the SS more prestige — but now it was very dangerous. If the British pushed Rommel back onto the defensive, their superiority in numbers would be decisive, unless the supply lines were increased. Was that possible?

  Hitler was unconvinced. “I want details,” he snapped, his voice sounding marginally calmer. “What happened and why?”

  Manstein paused for a moment. When he responded, he spoke in a careful, calm voice. It was as if he were speaking to a wild and dangerous animal. “The first attacks were completely successful. Rommel moved up his two main striking units, the 7th Panzer and Das Reich and punched through the British lines at the critical locations. Successive attacks by our infantry prevented the British from closing the gaps and in fact, hours into the fighting, the gaps had been torn wide enough to prevent the British from closing them. The main striking forces charged onwards and rapidly surrounded Colchester before pushing deeper into British territory.

  “At this point, there were a number of local British counter-attacks and Rommel made the decision to seal off the cities, like we did at Leningrad, rather than risk the losses involved with taking them directly,” he continued. “The main body of the assault force moved to reinforce 7th Panzer, but… at that moment, the British launched a major counter-attack. General Rommel therefore ordered a pause to consolidate his gains before resuming an advance.”

  Himmler was almost impressed. Manstein had taken what was, to all intents and purposes, a defeat and turned it into something that Hitler, while far from happy, could live with. It wasn’t the easy victories of 1939 and 1940, but then, Hitler had been just as nervous as the rest of them during that period when they had taken a new and almost untried army into battle against the dreaded French Army and their British allies. Hitler, too, had feared them; Himmler sometimes wondered if the light treatment of the French under the New Order was a remnant of that fear.

  “I see,” Hitler said, his eyes darkening. His face was returning to normal, much to Himmler’s relief; he didn’t want Hitler to have a heart attack in public. It would be harder to conceal the Führer’s death until he had his own plans underway for taking complete power in the Reich. “When will Rommel go on the offensive again?”

  “He believes that he will be reinforced sufficiently within two weeks and, by then, he hopes to have consolidated his gains and wipe out or capture most of the pockets of resistance,” Manstein said. “We will be focusing on delivering as much in the way of supplies as Rommel needs, as well as regenerating the air force units that took part in the battle, including the ones that were weakened by the British.”

  His voice droned on. Himmler listened thoughtfully, considering the private report he’d received on the side; the losses had been much heavier than anyone had predicted. The pessimists had predicted that Rommel’s forces could get brutally hurt — would be — but they’d never suggested just how bad it actually was. Rommel had lost well over ten thousand men and hundreds of vehicles; the scale of the defeat would have been disastrous under any previous regime. The British had been hurt too… but how badly?

  “This is beside the point,” Himmler said suddenly. Everyone in the room, even Hitler, looked at him with some surprise. It wasn’t like him to take control of the meeting, at least not when military matters were involved. “Our priority is defeating the British and ensuring that their country enters the New Order on our terms. Can we hold the lodgement if the British counter-attack before the reinforcements are in place?”

  Manstein nodded. “The British would meet our own infantry, dug in and positioned for defeating any armoured thrusts of theirs,” he said firmly. “Our antitank weapons are actually better than theirs and our infantry more experienced, so I believe that we could hold the lodgement itself for much longer, if necessary.”

  “Good,” Himmler said. “That leaves us with one question. What are we going to do about the British Navy?”

  All eyes turned to Generaladmiral Erich Raeder, who looked unhappy. “I wanted to attempt to block the Panama Canal, but I was forbidden from doing so or engaging the British Navy anywhere near American units,” he said. “The net result of that is that the British Far Eastern Fleet has passed through the Panama Canal, met up with troop transports from Canada, and is proceeding to Britain at high speed. This force is accompanied by three older American battleships, officially to p
revent the British from getting any ideas of invading Panama, but effectively preventing us from engaging them as well.”

  “They’re lying,” Himmler said flatly. “The British have quite enough problems without adding the United States to their list of enemies. This is daring us to open fire on American ships.”

  Admiral Canaris smiled thinly. “The American Government’s official position is that the United States is not involved in the fighting and expects to remain that way,” he said. “Unofficially, they are definitely providing a high degree of support to the British, including several shipments of weapons and a few thousand volunteer soldiers. Their ships are providing additional convoy escorts for any convoy that happens to include an American ship, and, as you can imagine, that is all of them.

  “I don’t know if the American Government can push this much further without some assistance from us,” he continued, “but President Taft has clearly decided to use the conflict to his advantage, at least in some ways. Dewey left Taft with a series of problems, but he has shown himself able to use the war to his advantage. How it will work out in the long run remains to be seen, but at the moment, we must reckon the Americans to be actively supporting the British, and to all intents and purposes, to be at war with us.”

  “They will pay for this,” Hitler thundered, his face darkening again. “A mere command could send hundreds of bombers to flatten New York, and our submarines will sweep their ships from the sea!”

  Himmler found himself, for once, trying to talk the Fuhrer out of something. “Mein Fuhrer, the priority for the moment is the British,” he said. “The task of confronting the United States and bringing it into the New Order will have to wait until we have defeated the British. Then expand our own armed forces to the point where we could launch a major offensive against the United States.”