England Expects el-1

by Charles S. Jackson

  11. A Not So Phoney War

  In England, the Realtime period between September 1939 and May 1940 — the months directly preceding the beginning of the German blitzkrieg in France and the Low Countries — at the time became known colloquially as the ‘Phoney War’. In the seven months following the Allied declaration of war on September 3, 1939, very little activity of any kind occurred on the Western Front at all, the Germans according it their own nickname of ‘Sitzkrieg’. Indeed, the French Army and the British Expeditionary Force sat in relative comfort behind the Maginot Line and the Meuse River, secure in the apathetic ‘certainty’ they were completely safe. Certainly they were a good deal safer at that time than the outnumbered and under-equipped Poles, fighting for their lives and country on the opposite side of Europe: those same hapless Poles over whom the ‘war’ against Germany had ostensibly been declared in the first place.

  And while the Polish fought on vainly in defence of their failing freedom, their would-be saviours sat behind their ‘safe’ defences and basically did nothing. It was military ‘fact’ that no one could penetrate the Maginot Line and that no mechanised force could negotiate the heavily forested Ardennes, or ford the Meuse without great delays. If the Wehrmacht came, the Allies would have plenty of time to consolidate and strike at any advancing force while the Royal Air Force and the Armeé de l’Air held the Luftwaffe at bay. So the Allies waited, the Poles were defeated in their lonely stand, and the majority of the Wehrmacht, almost all of which had been fighting in Poland, began to rebuild and re-equip and turned its hungry eyes toward the west.

  Four years later, during the course of that same Realtime war, the advancing United States Army would solidify their positions on that same River Meuse in preparation for winter and the arrival of the New Year. They too felt similarly secure in the knowledge that those same Germans, beaten and desperately under-supplied, could never mount a counter-attack through the Ardennes or anywhere else despite some damning and very recent historical evidence to the contrary that the forest could in fact be penetrated quickly by a determined and well-trained armoured force.

  In late 1944, as was the case in early 1940, the Allies were proven incredibly and utterly wrong. In 1944, the German counter-offensive that became known as ‘The Battle of the Bulge’ very nearly broke through the American lines as it swung down toward Brussels, the Allies largely deprived of their omnipotent air power due to execrable weather. Had the offensive in the Ardennes not bogged down and totally exhausted supplies and fuel available for the German armoured columns at the last moment, ports on the Dutch coast might well have been recaptured and the allied forces in the west split violently in two.

  Of the Realtime ‘Phoney War’ of 1939-40, some historians continue to argue that the French and BEF should’ve gone over to the offensive immediately upon declaration of war in September of 1939. With the greater majority of Germany’s armed forces fighting in Poland and the east, there existed an excellent chance of capturing the Ruhr and the German industrial heartland, putting paid to Hitler’s designs for Grossdeutschland in one fell swoop. Certainly there might’ve been a possibility of suing for some kind of negotiated peace from a position of strength, potentially saving millions of lives.

  Little more than twenty-three German divisions stood their ground on the Siegfried Line against one hundred and ten Allied divisions, and yet the Poles’ self-declared ‘saviours’ did nothing. Although less advanced in their organisation and order of battle in 1940, the French alone possessed a marked superiority in numbers of tanks and vehicles, and of that lesser number the Germans did have, there were to all intents and purposes none on the western frontier while the Wehrmacht fought in Poland. Yet the Allies remained complacent and Fall Gelb (Plan Yellow) began in May 1940: fallschirmjäger fell on the Belgian fortress of Eban Emael, German troops and armoured units penetrated the Ardennes and crossed the Meuse in just days, and the Battle for France began in earnest.

  For this radically altered Europe of Reuters’ and the New Eagles’ devising, the period between the beginning of July and the first days of September became, apart from just a few notable exceptions, something of a second ‘Phoney War’ in which there was very little by way of major action from either side… in the European Theatre at least. There were of course the usual harassing air raids, and frei jagd fighter sweeps continued across southern England, the latter in particular becoming progressively more productive and deadly as greater numbers of the newer J-4A fighters became available at geschwader strength.

  Adolf Galland and Werner Mölders declared their new fighter the greatest ever built, better even than the Spitfire, although in the years to come they’d both review those statements as technology overhauled them and even better aircraft were produced. Combat tallies rose ever upward and aces such as Galland, Mölders, Marseille, Priller and Bär became national heroes, but the ‘kills’ became harder and harder to find as the summer grew older and the RAF became all but non-existent. Fewer aircraft would rise every day from battered airfields to meet the Luftwaffe fighters and bombers that swept at will across England, the attackers choosing their targets with relative impunity. By the end of August, Britain’s military and industrial infrastructure in Southern England was practically in ruins, and the huge majority of the population were very very frightened of what the next few months might bring.

  There’d also been much activity at Scapa Flow throughout July, although perhaps not of such an overtly positive nature. Max Thorne grew more accustomed to his new military rank and uniform as July wore on, and he was often kept too busy to think about anything other than the job at hand during his waking hours, although his nights were still plagued either by dreams, alcohol or — with increasing regularity — both. New uniforms arrived for the entire Hindsight Unit: a temperate zone camouflage smock and pants of ‘tiger stripe’ pattern that was accompanied by an offer extended to all to be unofficially inducted into British Paras. To a man — including the Americans — all volunteered immediately, and from that moment on wore their new red berets with pride.

  The Australian SAS team was relieved of its communications and surveillance duties and took on the task of field training other combat units, Captain Green and his troop excelling at their task. Officers and NCOs of all the Commonwealth elite forces in Great Britain began to cycle through the Hindsight base at Lyness — an installation that would eventually increase its personnel on staff by almost half again within a month. These newly-trained officers and men would return to their units and pass on what they’d learned, the more advanced ideas and tactics revolutionising some men’s thinking. One of the brighter and more eager junior officers to attend the camp was a young man by the name of David Stirling. Specifically singled out by Thorne himself to undertake the SAS training sessions, in Realtime this man would’ve paradoxically gone on to create the legendary Special Air Service from which Green’s Australian unit would eventually be spawned.

  The American Rangers were set the task of organising home guard units throughout the country as their more mundane daily duties at Scapa Flow were taken over by a huge influx of security-cleared staff brought in from the mainland. For days on end they’d travel out by transport plane in twos and threes to various parts of Britain, visiting Land Defence Volunteer groups and instructing them in the basic theories and tactics behind conducting an effective guerrilla war against an invading and/or conquering army. They too were good at their job, and were able to pass on an important set of skills that a previous generation of American soldiers had learned the hard way from a capable enemy in the Viet Cong.

  During that warm and reasonably uneventful July, Thorne also began to train Alec Trumbull in flying the F-35E, a serious and intense expression never leaving the young man’s face as the pilot listened carefully and took in everything Thorne taught him. He quickly picked up the ‘knack’ of operating the aircraft in most of its flight modes, quickly overcoming his awe regarding the advanced technology and discovering that forty
years hadn’t altered the basics of flying so much that he was unable to adapt. Although Davies was loath to admit it, the pilot was nearing the point where Trumbull might even begin flight training on the F-22: the young man had at the very least progressed to the point that he was able to begin instructing others in flying the Lightning II, thereby leaving Thorne free to deal with the mountain of administrative problems that were the day-to-day bane of a CO.

  In global terms however, it could certainly be said that the month of July through to the end of August was, generally speaking, a quiet time during which little activity occurred on either side of The Channel.

  There were, of course, several significant exceptions…

  Hindsight Training Unit, HMS Proserpine

  Scapa Flow, Orkney Islands

  Wednesday

  August 14, 1940

  It’d been difficult for him to slip through the night piquets undetected, but he’d managed it all the same. Continuous exercises and rigorous training with Kransky and the rest of the security unit had brought his long-dormant talents and skills back to the fore and honed them considerably. In truth, it hadn’t been as difficult as it probably should have been that morning, but he wasn’t about to complain. He carried a silenced pistol inside his camouflage jacket, but he was fervently hoping he’d not need it: that’d be the end of him there at Scapa Flow, and he might well be needed again before Berlin could afford to sacrifice him, if necessary. He had no illusions as to that fact either: sacrifice him they would, if the need was great enough.

  Following the Flanker recon flight at the end of June that had caught them napping, Hindsight had broken out every radar set they’d brought with them, including one built up from spares, and the units had been set up at four ‘points of the compass’ on Hoy Island, mounted atop four of the numerous fortified gun emplacements dotted about the coastline and cliffs as protection for the approaches to the Home Fleet’s main anchorage. It was the one at Rora Head on the island’s cliff-edged western coast that he’d approached unnoticed in the dark of that early morning before sunrise. The guards and night crew were all tired — they were only minutes away from being relieved — and he’d timed his arrival for exactly that reason.

  It’d taken a little longer than he’d have liked to slip past the guard near the steel door at the rear of the emplacement, and he’d carefully and silently climbed up onto the broad, concrete roof where the radar set was positioned. He wore soft-soled running shoes rather than his standard-issue boots: any sound at that point would raise an alert and bring about his undoing, and he made sure was as silent as a mouse.

  Crouched by the rear of the large, white BRT — mounted as it was on a heavy metal tripod and bolted to the concrete — he rested his back against the bulk of a ventilation stack for the gunroom below and checked the time as he shivered at the dawn chill. He could clearly hear the apparatus within the dome-shaped casing whirr as it scanned the sea and sky off to the west in search of danger. He’d arrived with a few minutes to spare, and waited until exactly the moment specified by Berlin before carrying out the next part of his mission. As his watch ticked toward four that morning, and the first rays of sunlight reached out across the tops of the nearby hills on that side of the island, he took the time to cast his eyes about the general area.

  His position was completely safe from detection by the guards posted at the actual emplacement — the width of the roof itself precluded any chance of anyone that close actually spotting him — but as he scanned the surrounding landscape, a single silhouette stood out clearly in the distance, black against the dawn sky at the crest of a set of low hills to the east that led back toward Hindsight. He instantly ducked down completely behind the metre-high ventilation stack, suddenly feeling very exposed, and drew a small pair of field glasses from a large pocket of his field jacket.

  The stance and the man’s sheer height alone instantly identified the distant figure as Richard Kransky, and he silently cursed his luck. The Yank had been out on one of his lone patrols that night as usual, and had been able to approach the emplacement stealthily, much as he had, albeit for far more benign reasons. He could also see that although Kransky was clearly visible from his elevated position, the lie of the land meant the Hindsight security chief probably wasn’t visible to the guards below him on the ground. Kransky’s presence concerned him, but he kept his cool: it wouldn’t be long before everyone’s attention was focussed elsewhere, and there’d be enough time in the ensuing confusion for him to make good an escape from the area… or devise an excuse for his presence.

  He checked his watch once more, taking care to keep behind the cover of the air vent, and waited until the correct moment to reach down and take hold of the BRT’s insulated power cable. Pulling it taught between both hands, he stretched it across the straight edge of the ventilator’s metal frame, carefully exerting a steadily-increasing amount of strength until the copper wire inside finally separated and the whirring of the unit’s operation abruptly ceased. He’d taken care not to overtly tear the outer covering of insulation, and as he allowed the cable to fall to the surface of the roof once more there was no mark that couldn’t be explained as some kind of accidental breakage during installation.

  Kransky watched as the morning gun crew changed over at Rora Head. He was less than three hundred metres away as he squatted on the crest of the slope down to the coast and stared through his heavy binoculars, none of those at the 8-inch emplacement ever suspecting his presence. Those coming in had only been awake a few minutes and those they were replacing had been awake all night… in both cases, their attentiveness was low and even the guards by the door weren’t truly alert to the environment around them.

  As Security Chief, he suspected he should be angry about the situation but he preferred to be realistic, and human nature was what it was whether he liked it or not. The situation still wasn’t good enough however, and he’d certainly have to reprimand the crew at some stage, although he mightn’t be particularly enthusiastic in going about it. He didn’t appreciate excessive authority himself — one of the reasons he’d remained a ‘free-lance’ mercenary rather than a member of an organised armed force — although after a few weeks at Scapa Flow he could happily say that if more commanding officers were like Max Thorne, he could probably cope with army life. Most weren’t, unfortunately.

  Kransky had spent a large part of the night roaming about the island as if on field ops, pack slung on his back and the huge Barrett rifle over one shoulder. He was always back on base for his morning run with Eileen Donelson, and following that he generally spent a large part of most days working with Thorne and others to ensure the security of the base remained tight. That had taken up a great deal of his time in that first week of arrival as he and the rest of the officers and NCOs arriving with him had formed up as a cohesive unit, but as the weeks passed and security in their section of the base became more of a routine than new procedure, he found more and more spare time available for other things.

  A lot of that new-found free time concerned itself with learning more about Hindsight itself, and the incredible world the members of that unit had come from. His nights — a good part of them — were spent roaming the bleak expanses of the grassy hills and eastern lowlands of Hoy, getting to know every crest, nook and cranny. He generally made do with three or four hours sleep at most — sometimes not even that — and his body had actually become accustomed to that routine over time. After years of life on the land in hostile environments, he’d developed the ability to memorise the surrounding terrain quickly, and he’d already stored details of most of the terrain of Hoy and Mainland in his mind.

  He hefted the large rifle in his hands and turned away from the emplacement, drawing away from his vantage point and down the summit’s gradual reverse slope. The weapon Eileen and Thorne had given him to replace his Mauser was nearly a metre and a half long and weighed almost 13 kilograms — nearly three times the weight of the old rifle. He didn’t mind that as m
uch as might’ve been expected as he was not only strong but also quite tall, and the size of the weapon was therefore relatively less of an issue as a result.

  When he finally judged himself to be far enough away from the emplacement to avoid detection, Kransky stood fully and started walking at a more normal pace. It wouldn’t have mattered to the gun crews and guards had he been spotted — indeed, that would’ve been better event for them from the point of view of the base security officer — but it was a matter of personal pride in his own capabilities that he’d take every possible step to ensure both his approach and departure from a potential target area were as stealthy as possible.

  He took a glance at his watch, noting that it was not long after four and that he probably wasn’t going to make it back in time for breakfast and a shower by seven for his morning run. He’d use the radio at his belt to let Eileen know he was going to be late: with a hearty walk ahead of him just getting back to base, another run that day was probably superfluous anyway.

  “Kennel calling Pack Leader… come in please, Pack Leader… over…” The sound of Warrant Officer Clarke, the officer on duty in the radar control bunker at Hindsight, suddenly called softly to him from the radio speaker/mike clipped to his left shoulder. ‘Pack Leader’ was his call sign, and he answered the signal immediately.